Of Cabbages and Kings
by Morauko
Summary: Ten years after the war, the man who was once Harry Potter has succeeded in almost completely forgetting the boy he was. But when he befriends a lonely vacationer, he discovers parts of himself he'd never realised were missing. PostHBP, implied HG
1. Prologue: Meet Mr Wesley

_The time has come, the walrus said, to talk of many things_

_Of shoes and ships and sealing wax, of cabbages and kings_

_And why the sea is boiling hot, and whether pigs have wings._

_ -The Walrus and the Carpenter, by Lewis Carrol_

Prologue: Meet Mr. Wesley

Mr. Blake Wesley, of number sixty-six, Castle Rd, was proud to say that he was perfectly normal, thank you very much. He was the last person you'd expect to be involved in anything strange or mysterious, because he just didn't hold with such nonsense.

He had pale hazel eyes and greying black hair, and no noticeable scars or distinguishing features. His jaw was neither square nor pointed, his nose neither large nor aquiline, his chin clean-shaven and his hair firmly under control. Apart from a slight limp in the left leg, widely considered the result of an accident in his youth, he seemed in every way a completely ordinary English gentleman nearing his fortieth year.

Since Mr. Wesley first purchased the old Price place, nearly ten years back, he had embarked on an impressive series of repairs, alterations and redecorations, restoring the century's old farmhouse to its original appearance. The building, now known as the St Just Bed & Breakfast, for the name of the town in which he settled, had long since become an integral part of the local community, serving as not only accommodation for infrequent visitors, but a friendly spot for the tea and biscuits so beloved by the folk.

Mr. Wesley himself, though consistently courteous and friendly to his numerous visitors, neighbours and acquaintances, remained somewhat of a mystery to the town. For sure, he was perfectly amenable to conversation with both the ladies and the gents, as he walked his large black dog Romulus around Lands End, or worked in his spacious garden of beautiful and unusual plants, or prepared pastries and meals for his visitors and their kin. But for all that, no one knew much about him.

Where did Mr. Wesley come from? And why did he choose St Just, isolated at the south-west corner of Cornwall, practically in the ocean. His accent seemed to remind one of the Surrey area, but there was a hint of something else, as if he was fluent in other languages than simple English. He was known to have been boarding schooled, but no amount of conversation had managed to retrieve its name. For that matter, he had never had visitors from the school, nor any visitors at all, as if there was no one in the world that knew who he was.

Mr. Wesley, for all his friendliness and social graces, was also intensely private. Those few privileged to enter his private chambers could be counted on a single hand. Thence, they returned tales of dozens of paintings, clearly the work of the gentleman himself, picturing a young girl with vibrant red hair and chocolate brown eyes, which almost seemed to stare at the viewer. The romantics of the village posited that this was his long-lost love, dead in some horrible accident when they were very young, but their elders merely shook their heads. Leave the gent's private business be, he's as much a right to privacy as any other soul. And so the days went by, one month stretching into the next, and Mr. Wesley remained, for all his unknown past, completely and utterly unremarkable.

But Mr. Wesley had a secret, a secret which would overturn the tidy categorisations of his neighbours and completely change their views of him. For Mr. Wesley slept safely each night with a ward around his property, a silencing charm on his bedroom, and a scratched and beaten piece of holly hidden safely beneath his pillow.

And in the night, Mr. Wesley woke up screaming.


	2. Breakfast at St Just

**Chapter 1: Breakfast at St Just.**

The morning of June 17th began much like any other morning in the coastal town of St Just. Mr. Wesley woke with the first rays of dawn, a habit he had never been entirely able to shake off, despite the imminent approach of the summer solstice. By this time of year, few others were willing to brave the brisk 5am air, preferring to rest and relax until a saner hour. But, Mr. Wesley thought to himself, when had he ever been sane?

Throwing on an old blue dressing gown, feet bare and hair still bedraggled from sleep, he quietly began to make his way down the old wooden stairs. After ten years living in this house, he had come to know every creaky step, every loose bar, every slight gap or chip. For sure, he thought, he had the funds and time to have it fixed, but he felt these small faults and defects to be a part of the house's identity, its soul. Sometimes his neighbours laughed at the way he thought of this old building, which had passed through so many hands in its three hundred years of life, but they accepted it as just another of his little idiosyncrasies.

Smiling almost imperceptibly, Mr. Wesley made his way to the kitchen, what he considered to be the heart of his home. And, like every day, he began to bake. First, the bread – he measured, weighed, mixed and stirred, before putting the mixture in the oven to cook. This was soon joined by a variety of pastries – éclairs, danishes, raspberry tarts, small apple pies, and a single plain croissant for Mrs. Salzen from down the road, dozens of light and tasty treats for his beloved guests. The food seemed to come into his hands as disparate bags and bottles and spices, and almost instantly they were cooked and steaming slightly upon the trays near the windowsill, beneath the first rays of the morning sun, without any of the anger and frustration and mess characterised by other kitchens. It was like magic, some thought.

Like every morning, Mr. Wesley then made his way back upstairs; less careful now, as he knew most of his guests would be awakening already, unwilling to waste the best hours of their holidays. He liked to call them 'guests', as if they were his own friends and family, rather than those cold terms like 'customers', and he knew the villagers thought this because he had no family of his own. Really, though, it was because he wanted them to feel welcome, warm, wanted. In Mr. Wesley's world, everyone was welcome.

A few short minutes later, Mr. Wesley was back by the stove, now fully dressed in loose grey jeans and a slightly crinkled chequered shirt, having no woman around to do the ironing and never having cared for it himself. As on every other morning, seven o'clock found the coffee brewing and the tea-kettle whistling merrily, as he juggled the numerous plates of bacon and eggs and sausages and potatoes and mushrooms and tomatoes and onions, which filled the homey brown and gold dining room with their tantalising scents.

By this time, a small crowd had begun to gather around the rough wooden tables and old three-legged stools, filling the small room with lively chatter. Every morning, this same crowd would gather for Mr. Wesley's famous home-cooked breakfasts – some old, some young; locals, their children, their guests, and one old man even brought his dogs with him. Everyone was welcome, and Mr. Wesley never charged more than they could afford, though it was widely believed he could do far better with his skills than this isolated little village. But neither money, nor fame, nor respect seemed to matter to him, and he seemed simply content to cook his pastries and wander his grounds, with every day the same as the last. And the customers kept on coming.

By nine, the locals were joined by those few people staying in the house itself, as the village had few visitors without family to stay with. On this particular morning, there was a young family of four from London, who quickly found themselves becoming part of the crowd. The children of the village not still in bed, some six or seven of them, soon found themselves with an extra playmate or two, as they ran through outstretched arms and under the wooden tables and into the recesses and cupboards in the kitchen itself, totally absorbed in some simple childhood game. Horrified at her children's behaviour, the mother began to apologise to Mr. Wesley, but he simply smiled and shook his head before retreating shyly into the kitchen.

Bewildered, she made to go after him, but was grabbed by a middle-aged gent from a nearby table. "Don't ye go worrying, Miss," he said with a smile, "That's just how Mr. Wesley is."

Brow furrowed, she questioned, "So he doesn't talk to anyone?"

Her response was a laugh. "Oh, he talks, and he has a fair mind too; he's just no good with crowds. If you got him one on one like, you'd find him to talk a bit more, though you'd carry the larger part of the conversation for sure. But in these situations he prefers to stay in his kitchen and cook. He likes it there, don't ask me why!"

"And he has no problem with the children running amok and under his feet? Wouldn't they get in his way?"

"No, he loves the children, always has time for them, no matter how busy or preoccupied he is. Eyes like a fox, that one. He's probably off giving them his special gingerbread biscuits or somethin' right at this moment. He doesn't feel uncomfortable around them like he does around us adults, despite how we've tried to make him feel at home. Just one of those solitary sorts, I suppose."

Shrugging, she let him be and made her way back to her husband, quickly finding herself absorbed in a conversation on the latest political news with a man who liked like he might once have been a reporter, in the days before he retired. And so the morning went on, locals and visitors alike united by good food, hot tea (or coffee), and the friendly atmosphere of the St Just B&B.

It was probably nearing midday when the door opened once more, though, being Sunday, little attention was being paid to the time. To slight murmurings, it revealed Mrs. McElroy from Campbellson house, right on the other edge of town. Her husband long since deceased, Mrs. McElroy was getting on in years and very rarely seen outside of her own, over-large home, which seemed constantly full of cats. However, Mrs. McElroy was as welcome as any other in Mr. Wesley's dining room, her mind still quick despite failing eyesight.

No, the real surprise was the sight seen behind her, emerging hesitantly from the shadow of the heavy oaken door. His golden hair was streaked with green and carefully spiked, and his nose was studded with what looked like some sort of dragon. With his dangling earring, tight black pants, and ragged T-shirt bearing some sort of rock emblem, he looked like some young punk, right out of the city, though his slightly jaded blue eyes were a testament to his real age.

"Everyone," Mrs. McElroy said quietly, to a respectful silence, "This young man is a distant cousin of my late husband, by the name of Mallory Blanc." The aforementioned man shifted uncomfortably under their intense stares, as the villagers slowly took in his outlandish appearance, one mother even forcing her daughter to avert her eyes. "His mother requested that he stay with me for a few months, as a break from his strenuous teaching job, and I know he'll fit right in." Waving at Mr. Wesley over in the kitchen, who returned it with a wave of his own, she slowly made her way back to the waiting car, closing the door behind her.

In the now silent room, Mallory smiled wanly and made a half-hearted attempt at a bow, before awkwardly making his way to the nearest corner, as if to shield himself from their disapproval. And as the other customers backed away from his pale form to mutter and stare, it was quite clear that he didn't belong there.


	3. To Talk

**Chapter 2: To Talk**

Within about half an hour, the majority of the locals had returned to their own conversations, life continuing as it always did, but for the occasional glance towards the corner. For sure, there was an unusual abundance of conversation about how the modern city is corrupting the youth of the world, and the loss of good English values of respect and dignity. And conversation also centred around the French (for whom most English maintained a strong dislike); but there were no outright jeers or insults, for the people of St Just simply didn't DO that sort of thing.

And so an hour passed, and then two, with the people of St Just coming and going at will to their various endeavours, while Mr. Wesley continued to bake and cook and brew. Most people would find that job exhausting – spending all day slaving over a hot stove, creating culinary delights for such a large crowd on one's own, and then (once they left for the evening meal, which Mr. Wesley did not provide) having the responsibility of both cleaning the kitchen and dining area, but also managing the Bed & Breakfast itself. But Mr. Wesley was never happier than when he was busy, for it gave him no time to think. Thinking brought memories, and memories are dangerous.

However, on this particular afternoon, Mr. Wesley did indeed find himself thinking, as he glanced towards the lonely corner holding their new guest. Despite his alien appearance, Mr. Blanc was neither rude nor obnoxious, as would have been expected under such scrutiny. Instead, he did his best to become innocuous and unnoticeable, and quietly stared out the window or did something in a small green notebook he seemed to carry around. To Mr. Wesley, it looked as if he was not only used to this behaviour, but expected it; but how could that be? Unlike most residents, Mr. Wesley had some small experience of the city, and knew that, albeit getting some looks, such attire was not at all uncommon, especially in one of his apparent age.

As the oil splashed out of the pan, nearly injuring him in his inattention, something that had not happened for several years, Mr. Wesley admitted the truth to himself. He was curious about this man – what had brought him here? Why was he so accepting, so jaded? And how, and this was the most pertinent question, how could a man with the clothing and attitude he showed, be a teacher of children?

But no, it couldn't all be put down to curiosity. Mr. Wesley felt… sorry was not the right word, but perhaps a bit of empathy. An image flashed into his mind of a fat pig-like boy, a crowd of jeering faces, a black gaping hole under the stairs, but they were quickly suppressed. Those days were over, to be forgotten and hidden in the deepest recesses of his mind. He was Mr. Wesley now. But he knew what it was like to be different, and perhaps it was that which provoked his next move, a move that would change his life forever.

When a break came, all the pastries happily cooking, enough coffee and tea to last a good half-hour, Mr. Wesley joined his guests and neighbours… and sat down beside their young visitor. The locals stared at him in shock.

For the first couple of minutes, as Mr. Wesley maintained his customary quiet, young Mr. Blanc seemed not to register his presence. However, as he lifted his head towards the window, he noticed a roomful of people staring at him. No, not at him - at something beside him. Turning to see the seemingly older man, he resentfully uttered, "What do you want?"

His tone sparked a mutter of outrage among the locals, that he should be so rude to the proprietor of this place, who had yet to enforce any sort of payment for the apricot Danish and mug of coffee he was cradling. But Mr. Wesley ignored them, and instead offered his hand to the quiet young man. Understandably suspicious at first, when Mr. Wesley failed to withdraw his hand, the young man reluctantly shook it, and Mr. Wesley smiled slightly. "Welcome to our town, Mr. Blanc."

Mr Blanc snorted. "Call me… Mallory, I guess. Mr. Blanc sounds too much like some middle-aged respectable Englishman, and you could hardly say that about me, could you?" he added, gesturing derogatively towards his clothes, before realising he had indirectly insulted the other man. "And you are?"

"Blake Wesley, I run this café. And I must say, Mr. Blanc sounds more like a Frenchman than an Englishman, however did you end up with such a solid English accent?"

Mallory rolled his eyes. "My father's family is French, they say I take after him. However, I don't believe I have ever left this fine country. I grew up in Wiltshire, which isn't too far west of here, hence why Mother has relatives in this area."

"I see," replied Mr. Wesley. He would not have expected a stranger to talk so easily, even about unimportant topics like family history. But then, he himself was rather reticent about his past, as most of the village could vouch.

"And yourself?" Mallory asked. "I suppose you've lived here all your life. Family business?"

"No, actually," Mr. Wesley replied. "I grew up in Surrey, with my aunt and uncle," and there was a shared surprise among the numerous eavesdroppers. Despite having lived in the village for ten years, no one knew more than that he came from Surrey, and now he had unknowingly revealed this before a complete stranger? It was all very odd.

"Your aunt and uncle?" Mallory asked, echoing the question on many villagers' lips. "What happened to you parents?"

"They died." Mr. Wesley replied shortly, a shuttered expression coming over his face, which was previously so interested. "If you'll excuse me, I have work to do," he said shortly, before leaving the table and Mallory's surprised face to return to his job, angrily haranguing himself for his lack of subtlety. Once able to maintain the worst of lies with his powerful occlumency, now he couldn't even remember to hold his tongue. It was shameful.

Mallory looked after his rapidly departing guest, a look of confusion on his face, quietly asking what he did wrong. Noticing the countless faces intently staring at him, he blushed in embarrassment and attempted to move away, but was halted by an older man, who grabbed his arm and prevented his departure.

"It's not your fault, kiddo, Mr. Wesley hates to remember his past. In fact, he just revealed more to you then than he has to anyone else in his ten years here." Looking around, Mallory saw agreement on all the faces around him.

"You mean, none of you knew he was an orphan?"

"All we knew was that he came from Surrey and was a nice enough chap, albeit a bit quieter than the average Englishman, especially at the age he was when he came."

"Oh… and how old was that?" Mallory asked, interested.

"We think he was thirty, but we simply don't know, kid. No one knows. But, it seems, you might have the chance to. Mr. Wesley needs a friend, and despite all logic, you seem to be the one. Don't waste it."

"I won't," Mallory replied firmly. Thinking about it, he realised that he hadn't had a real friend for a very long time, not a friend who didn't judge or expect or ask for things. Maybe this would be different – either way, he was willing to give it a go.

And as he looked around the room, he saw that although none were eager to talk with the strange young man with nose-ring and rock shirt, neither did their eyes hold the same disapproval they had before. He may not be one of them, but he had a link, now. And maybe, with someone to talk to, this 'holiday' wouldn't be so bad.


	4. Memories

**Chapter 3: Memories**

The next morning, Mallory arrived at eleven, and made his way directly to the coffee. Mr Wesley looked on in amusement as the young guest downed three cups in succession, without bothering with milk or sugar.

Smiling slightly, he asked, "Rough night?"

Mallory rolled his eyes in response. "I never get up before midday. _Never_. And I need my beauty sleep," he said, wryly indicating his slightly flyaway hair, though Mr Wesley couldn't see anything wrong with his appearance. But then, Mr Wesley had never been very worried about appearance, as indicated by his slightly baggy track-pants.

"Not before midday?" Mr Wesley asked with a raised eyebrow. "But I thought you were a teacher?"

"Well," Mallory sighed, "I unfortunately have to wake earlier during the term, it's true, though living at the school makes it easier. But this is my _holiday_!"

Mr Wesley laughed. "I guess I see your point. I've been rising with the sun for the past decade, so I can hardly imagine the idea of sleeping so late. My body clock would probably still wake me at seven, no matter what I did."

Mallory frowned. "So you never have holidays? That seems a bit… hard."

Mr Wesley smiled warmly, and gazed affectionately at his busy kitchen and several customers. "Why would I want a holiday? I love to cook, and I love the people here. I don't think I could be any more content."

Unable to understand, Mallory merely shrugged. Having been raised in luxury, it didn't make sense to him to work that much. As he was about to say as much, though, the timer on the oven went off, and Mr Wesley turned away. "You'd better finish that coffee before it gets cold, Mallory."

Taking a sip, Mallory crinkled his nose in disgust at the now-cold drink, before grabbing a croissant and taking a chair in the corner, slightly apart from the other villagers.

Mr Wesley was a puzzle to him. The man seemed to have no concern for money, never seeming to ask for payment for his generosity, though he got the impression the villagers gave him whatever they could afford. It was like he didn't care if they paid him at all, would be willing to keep working for free.

But why? If he could survive that way, Mr Wesley must have plenty of money, in which case he could surely just spend his time having _fun_, even if his idea of fun was something typically old like going for long rambling walks or looking after his garden. And instead, he decides to slave away from sunrise til sunset, before going to bed before midnight.

And Mr Wesley claimed to be happy. But even Mallory, who had never been one for closeness and caring, knew that everyone needed friends, and Mr Wesley never seemed to speak to anyone. It was like his life had moved on, leaving him behind. It was completely and utterly bewildering.

Nibbling on Mr Wesley's beautiful pastries – of a skill level that could get him employed as a professional, respected chef, so why didn't he leave? – Mallory resigned himself to several weeks of puzzlement. He just didn't understand him, and Mallory couldn't put up with that.

Mr Wesley spared Mallory a few more minutes throughout the day, but with the presence of new guests (a couple of young women who appeared to be hitchhiking through Europe) and his daily jobs in kitchen and building he had few opportunities to continue his conversation with the young stranger.

To his surprise, as Mr Wesley weeded his roses in the fading light, he found himself pondering the question of Mallory Blanc. He said he was a teacher, but his whole attitude didn't seem to entail someone who found anything rewarding in teaching children, and his casual acceptance of laziness and holidays indicated the presence of some wealth. But then, Mr Wesley had had his own share of teachers with no desire to teach...

And why the garb? The Mallory Mr Wesley had talked to was someone suave and sophisticated, the type of person who would have made a young Blake feel awkward and uncomfortable. It was almost like someone had _told_ him what to wear and where to go, but why would a twenty-something man have someone telling him what to do?

As darkness fell, Mr Wesley realised that he had seriously neglected his roses, and smiled wryly. It had been several years since a person had interested him so, but this Mallory Blanc seemed to be very interesting.

But not interesting enough. Mr Wesley would befriend this young man for his few weeks here, then Mallory would be gone, and Mr Wesley would return to his daily routine with little but the occasional fond thought for another of his temporary friendships. There was no point in letting him get too close – Mr Wesley knew by now that friendships don't last.

Sighing at his own distraction, Mr Wesley subtly checked the wards, before making his way back into the old building. The guests had returned from their meal, probably at the Old Buck, but maybe with some of the families in the village, and were now sitting in front of the fireplace in companionable silence. Looking in, Mr Wesley saw that the kids were well under control, and there was no real threat of rowdiness, so he retired to his own quarters.

Bypassing bedroom and study, he made his way to a locked door on the far side of the sitting room. Withdrawing his battered holly wand from the inner pocket of his trousers, he softly muttered "Alohamora" and turned the brass knob before sidling into the darkened room.

There was no light-switch in this room, but a dozen old-fashioned torches, which he lit with a quick wave of his wand. The flickering shadows on the walls created a sense of age, and sadness, and nostalgia for bygone days.

The room was mostly empty, bar an old broom leaning in a corner and a battered trunk bearing the initials "H. J. P," which he opened with an old golden key that sat on the sill of a small window which showed a scene of forests which was quite incongruous with the rolling fields that one would expect to see. As he lifted a tattered grey cloak of strange hue from a leather-bound album, a coughing sound caused him to spin.

"So you're back again, then? It's been so long that I thought you weren't going to come back this time," a seemingly disembodied voice stated in annoyance, as not a human stood in the room.

Sighing, Mr Wesley stood and eyed the old portrait opposite the window. In front of an old castle, stood four figures in their early twenties, just a short while before two of them would be lost for good. A man with long black hair and impish blue eyes was grinning at Mr Wesley, while the amber-eyed young man next to him began to scold him for his rudeness. Next to them, another young man with Mr Wesley's hazel eyes, but incredibly messy dark hair, had his arms around a frowning redhead, who plaintively asked Mr Wesley, "Why aren't you coming to see us anymore? We get so lonely in here."

"Yeah," added the first man in annoyance, "You know none of us have any other portraits, and so we _never_ know what's going on. You must have left us for almost a year, this time!"

"Sirius!" exclaimed his sandy-haired companion, "Don't be so rude. We all know he's busy."

"He never used to be too busy for us, though," the other brunette quietly pointed out to the two squabbling friends.

Mr Wesley sighed and looked away. No matter how he tried, he couldn't really escape his past, could never really forget and let go. And so, despite all his intentions for sleep and blissful forgetfulness, he sat down resignedly on his trunk. Because he couldn't bring himself to let these deceased heroes die, even only in memory. After all they'd meant to him, it wouldn't be fair.

"Well…"


	5. Release

**Chapter 4: Release**

Dawn found Mr. Wesley lying wide awake beneath his blue covers, unshed tears clouding his eyes and a dull ache in his chest. Slowly, with all the lethargy of disillusioned age, he dragged his tired body to the window, which gazed out upon the grey Cornish sea. The morning sun shone brightly, setting all the water a-sparkle with life and joy, while the corner of his eye caught the softly spiraling smoke from some comfortable cottage.

And he turned his face away.

As he walked away from the window, that incongruous tableau of the life that he no longer had, anger led strength to his steps, as he almost ran down the hallway to the windowless room near the stairs, where he wouldn't have to acknowledge what he had lost. What he had let himself lose. But as he came face to face with dozens of pairs of staring cinnamon eyes, the tears began to fall down his weathered cheeks, leaving trails of salt on lips and neck.

Angrily wiping them away with a swipe of his hand, he grabbed the nearest brush and began to paint. Great swathes of angry, bloody red, cool and heartless blacks, fierce greens, angry oranges, all seemed to flow from his brush to the blank canvas. All his anger, all of his pain and fear and loss and regret and sorrow and hate and helpless longing seemed to bleed out of his very blood, as he almost brought the very art to life, for all his refusal to use magic. One magical painting was more than enough. Much, much more.

With one last, choked sob, he slashed a silver zigzag into the top right corner, before standing back to observe his work. A rolling cloud of black and grey, streaked with the reds and oranges, seemed to emanate menace and hatred and fear. It covered all the canvas, bending trees sideways under lashing rain and roaring winds, making the once-green grass and blue lake seem to mirror the blackness of the hated sky.

Lost in this whirling maelstrom were faded figures – dozens, hundreds, each drenched in blood, faces marked with pain and horror and blame, as they stared at the helpless observer. But Mr. Wesley did not scream, or cry, or run. He merely stared at the figures with eyes full of unbearable longing and remorse, which were caught on one tiny red-head holding a wilted white rose.

By the time the villagers began to arrive around eight o'clock, Mr. Wesley was in his customary place in the kitchen. Coffee and tea were hot and waiting on the table, the warm smell of cooking pastries wafted from the oven, and none spared a thought for the fact that usually some would be baked by now. "He should sleep in more often," most of them would say, with an affectionate smile, and any trace of sadness in his eyes was hidden completely by a veneer of normality, calmness and content. And every day was much like any other, in the small and static town of St Just.

Mallory stumbled in at around ten thirty that morning, still rubbing sleep from his eyes, though he clearly had had the time to properly spike his hair again, a ritual that Mr. Wesley had never understood. Smirking slightly from where he sat, nursing a hot cup of earl grey, he watched Mallory down his three cups of coffee before stopping to look around.

Mallory's obvious double-take at the sight of the nearly empty room caused Mr. Wesley and the few others there to laugh in shared amusement. "What, you thought all anyone did was come in 'ere, boy?" asked an older gent, seemingly in the process of walking the large Border Collie lying contentedly by his legs.

"Well… yes," Mallory replied, with the barest hint of embarrassment in his eyes. "After all the people here these last couple of days…"

The other gent smirked, and Mr. Wesley interrupted to save young Mallory the inevitable teasing, since the younger man seemed one who took himself too seriously. "Surely you were aware that we've just been though the weekend, Mallory? It's a lot quieter here during the week, which is all for the best, if you ask me."

An elderly woman, smiling wide enough to show her rather small supply of teeth, patted Mr. Wesley affectionately on the shoulder, causing him to shift in slight discomfort. "Young Master Wesley says that, but if I've ever seen someone whose life is his work, this man is it!"

_Yes, because he has no other life at all,_ Mallory thought to himself, but deigned to comment. Mr. Wesley had been friendly enough, for all the dullness of his life, that he felt the surprising desire not to offend him. Instead, he directed his next question to the subject of the discussion, hoping to draw him out a bit more. "And what do you do here, when all your friends are out doing whatever it is old people do when they're not here."

A few suggestions were shouted out – "Golf!" "Cribbage!" "Fishing!" "I'm not old!" – but Mallory's eyes were caught solely on those of Mr. Wesley, which seemed to go strangely distant at the mention of friends. But it passed so quickly that he was sure he'd imagined it, and spared it no further thought.

"I suppose I do what most people do here," Mr. Wesley replied quietly. "I work in my garden, I walk my dog, and sometimes I go to the town for supplies."

"And he paints!" the elderly woman persisted, despite an annoyed glance from her embarrassed host. "You should see some of his work, it's really lovely."

"Not now, Mrs. Cambellson," Mr. Wesley muttered in annoyance, before quickly changing the subject. "Actually, what with Mr. Eddison here needing to walk old Bessie before she gets too fat," ("Oi!" interjected Mr. Eddison, jokingly, echoed by the canine's injured whine) "and Mrs. Cambellson running late for the bridge club, I was thinking of closing for a bit and taking Rommie out for a walk around the point."

"Oh," said Mallory, face falling slightly in disappointment. For all that he was staying with a distant relative, he really didn't know anyone here, and had no idea of how to spend the next few weeks. At least in the café, he had company of sorts, however unsure he felt… his train of thought was broken by the touch of a hand on his shoulder, causing him to look up with eyebrow raised inquiringly. "Yes?"

Mr. Wesley smiled back at him, a warm expression for all its uncertainty, before repeating what must have been his last comment. "I was just saying that… well, if you wanted to… you haven't seen much of our area while you've been here, have you?"

"No, not really," Mallory replied slowly, somewhat confused. _Too busy in here, I guess_, he added mentally.

"Well, if you wanted to, Rommie and I would more than welcome your company, and maybe we could show you a bit of the area while we're at it."

Smiling warmly, Mallory was glad to see his grin echoed slightly on his host's face, who, to Mallory's surprise, seemed genuinely eager for his company. So far as Mr. Wesley could ever be anything as emotional as eager, that was.

"I'd love to, Mr. Wesley."


	6. Of Shoes and Ships and Sealing Wax

**Chapter 5: Shoes and Ships and Sealing Wax**

Having never been a big fan of nature and meaningless exercise in general, Mallory was surprised to find him enjoying himself. The sea was grey and choppy, the beach grey and rocky, the sky grey and cloudy – nothing like the pristine white sands and cyan waters he had visited in his youth. But there was something _real_ to this place that was lacking in all those stereotypically beautiful sites – the fierce freedom of a soaring gull, the aching loneliness of the wind-swept slopes, the wide expanses of gravel and grass that were free of any sign of human habitation.

The head, as Mr. Wesley had told him, was the western-most point of Cornwall, and possible the most south-western part of England, although neither Mr. Wesley nor Mallory had really learnt much geography in school. And as Mallory watched Mr. Wesley's large black dog gambol in the roaring surf after a stone or a piece of driftwood, and his already tired feet traversed the pathless ground, Mallory felt a sense of something entirely strange to him. Was this peace? Whatever it was, it was pleasant.

Eventually, they made their way to their apparent destination – a large grey boulder, which almost seemed to hang above the ocean, defying the very laws of gravity. But Mr. Wesley seemed fearlessly confident as he climbed the pitted surface and, after only a moment's hesitation, Mallory followed him. Mallory had many flaws, though few which he was prepared to admit, but he had never been a coward.

Smiling slightly at Mallory's discomfort, Mr. Wesley turned his gaze back to the sea before him. He had always felt that the waters symbolised him in some way – the dull and opaque grey surface hiding all that is wild and unique and frightening, even from itself. It was one of the main reasons he had chosen this small town, when logic would suggest somewhere bigger, somewhere further away, somewhere where he wouldn't be known – in a country town, everyone knows everyone else.

But after having waited eighteen years before ever seeing the sea, Mr Wesley simply felt… connected, and after giving up everything else he loved, he needed that connection. After a few minutes of silence, each lost in their private thoughts, he quietly offered, "When I first arrived in this town, I used to come to this rock almost every night. I used to imagine that if I looked hard enough, I would be able to see Ireland on the horizon… though that's impossible, of course, even I know that."

Mallory raised an eyebrow, despite his pleasure at the voluntary communication, something neither man was particularly prone to. "What's so fascinating about Ireland?" he asked, having never had any interest in the place himself

Mr. Wesley laughed slightly. "You know what? I don't actually know. I guess it's just comforting, knowing that no matter who or where you are," _or how alone you are,_ "there's always more to the world."

Mallory made a non-committal sound, and the conversation descended into silence for a few minutes, before he spoke again. "I would have thought that you came to this town to _be_ alone. Why else would you choose such a pokey little place? I know that you could afford better."

Chuckling, Mr. Wesley responded, "I suppose you're right. Although, it was more a search for a place where I could be normal than where I could be alone, and a job, however unpaid, helped with that. The loneliness just sort of… happened." Though he spoke in a joking voice, Mallory could see the sadness in his hazel eyes, a strange mixture of longing and regret.

"So did you always want to end up like this? Somewhere quiet and peaceful, where you could live out the rest of your days in a simple routine?"

Mallory didn't mean to sound derogatory, merely to understand, but it seemed to come out wrong. After little more than a weekend in the town, Mallory couldn't understand why anyone would want this sort of life. And it became clear that his feelings were obvious, when Mr. Wesley replied, "I suppose you were the ambitious sort, then?"

Mallory snorted. _You don't know how right you are_. "Well, my parents raised me in order to become great, and I suppose you could say they convinced me of it along the line."

"They sound nice," Mr. Wesley replied wistfully, and Mallory was hard-pressed to hold back a laugh.

"Not really," he replied shortly. "They gave me everything I wanted, but everything has its price. Of course, I didn't realise that then… children never do."

"I've had my fair share of experiences with wealthy children," Mr. Wesley replied, "And most of them seemed to be pretty terrible specimens of humanity. It's amazing you turned out so well adjusted, really."

Mallory couldn't hold back the laugh this time. Still chuckling, he said, "Mr. Wesley, trust me, you would have _hated_ me in High School… I was rude, obnoxious, conceited, petty, and made some _really_ bad choices… some of them, I'm still paying for, and if it weren't for some of the people I mistreated as a youth…"

As his voice trailed off, slightly embarrassed, Mr. Wesley granted him one of those amazing smiles, losing easily ten years from his face. "But at least you realised it. Some people never do. "

"Yeah…"

The pair sat in silence for several minutes, as Mr. Wesley threw sticks for his excited dog and Mallory threw rocks into the waves below, his mind on his past mistakes. Noticing his train of thoughts, Mr. Wesley decided to distract him, amusedly asking, "So, if you're so well-endowed and pampered, what on earth brings you to southern Cornwall for your holidays? Couldn't you be in France, or Venice, or Hawaii?"

Mallory smiled, noticing the incredibly unsubtle change of topic, but choosing not to comment. "Well, you see… god, this sounds so stupid… my mother told me to come."

Both of Mr. Wesley's eyebrows shot up, as he confusedly asked, "Your _mother?_ At twenty-four, aren't you a bit old for that?"

"Thirty, actually, but thankyou for the compliment." He hoped to distract him from the real question, and Mr Wesley's surprised look made him think it was working… however, as Mr Wesley continued to stare, he realised he had no choice but to answer the real question. "Oh, alright…," he replied in feigned annoyance, "You see, my father and I had a slight falling-out not long before he died, which led to my disinheritance."

"Ah," Mr. Wesley said, as if it explained everything, which it probably did, his next question being, "And your mother is using it to blackmail you into doing as she says?"

"Exactly," Mallory nearly growled. "She says it would be a 'good learning experience' to spend time with ordinary people… not that I really mind it, of course," he hastily added, not wishing to offend his friend.

"Of course not," Mr. Wesley replied in slightly cynical amusement. "And I suppose that's why you had to get a job as a teacher? And those clothes you wear, too, since you're clearly not comfortable in them."

"Urgh," Mallory replied succinctly, his distaste evident. "The clothes, though, were meant to annoy my mother and make people leave me alone. I'm not a big talker."

"I noticed that," Mr. Wesley replied with a slight smirk. "But speaking of people," he added, slowly getting to his feet, "We need to be getting back to the café, if I'm going to have tea ready for when the fishers come back. Coming?" he asked, offering Mallory his hand – surprisingly soft and clean for someone from a country town, though Mallory supposed he shouldn't be surprised, since Mr Wesley was clearly from somewhere more sophisticated, if he knew wealthy kids – but where?

Embarrassedly realising that he had been staring, Mallory averted his eyes, before muttering, "No, I think I'll stay out here a bit longer."

"Suit yourself," Mr. Wesley replied unconcernedly, retracting his hand before whistling for the dog, which eagerly bounded up to its waiting master. "I guess I'll see you later, then."

"Until then," Mallory replied, and watched as Mr. Wesley's form slowly receded into the distance, his mind stuck firmly on his past. If only…


	7. Honesty

**Chapter 6: Honesty**

Later that night, after his guests had made their way to their own homes for food and comfort, Mr Wesley hummed quietly as he wiped the benches in kitchen and dining room. Not having much of an ability for music, he knew his tuneless offering would grate on most people's ears, though most people would offer polite platitudes. However, he also knew how rare it was for a soul to visit after five, and felt safe in his quiet expression of seeming content.

As he moved to the sink, wherein he began to wash the various dishes and trays - having long since decided against the use of magic, however timesaving it may be - he heard the incongruous sound of the front door being opened. "Good god, what is that horrible sound?" came the voice from the dining room, and Mr Wesley quickly quietened, before poking his head through the door to see the source of the comment.

"Mallory," he said, torn between amusement and annoyance, as he glared distastefully at the soap bubbles dripping from his hands. "Always such a pleasure to see you."

Mr Wesley tensed in anticipation of the simpering politeness... but it didn't come. Instead, Mallory seemed to be looking around his dining room for something, though Mr Wesley could not fathom what.

"Aha! Here it is!" Mallory exclaimed, and turned on the battered old radio, which had sat unused on that shelf since the day Mr Wesley arrived. "If we must have music, even _this_ is better to that horrible drivel you were uttering," he said, his distaste for the 'pop' music now playing very clear. "What are you, a lawnmower? A bumblebee?"

Mr Wesley couldn't help but laugh at the last remark. "Ah, Mallory, it's a rare treat to have honesty in this proper england village. You know, you remind me a bit of one of my old teachers," he added with a smirk.

"Oh," Mallaory replied with a raised eyebrow. "Was he devilishly handsome and unspeakably witty, not to mention stunningly intelligent?"

Mr Wesley snickered. "No, he was a sarcastic and petty old bat who probably never had a girlfriend in his life. Always hated him as a child, but he could be funny when he wanted to."

Feigning a hurt look, Mallory turned his face away, before making his way over to the now sopping kitchen floor. He stood there for several seconds as Mr Wesley mopped up the mess, looking superior, before Mr Wesley threw an old tea towel at his chest. "If you're going to come in here and disturb me, you may as well help."

"Well, then," Mallory replied in seeming pain, though he could not keep the amusement from his eyes. "Here I was, coming over to invite you to dinner, and what do you do? Attack me with linen, and treat me like a common servant!"

Mr Wesley blinked, before turning his face up to Mallory from where he knelt on the floor, a pose that left him feeling somewhat awkward. "What do you mean, invite me for dinner?" he asked, confused.

Mallory rolled his eyes, before kneeling down next to the other man and helping him wipe up, before giving him a hand to his feet. "I meant what I said. Invite you for dinner. You obviously don't have time to cook yourself a proper meal, slaving away as you do for those ungrateful peasants. Therefore, I feel it my duty as your friend to make sure you eat. Now, let's finish these dishes, and we can be over at my cousin's place before the food comes out."

"Err... thankyou," Mr Wesley replied hesitantly, before returning to the dishes, Mallory now working by his side. With the added help, the dishes were cleaned faster than he'd ever seen, and soon he found himself walking through the village by Mallory's side, without his usual feelings of guilt or duty. It was a nice change.

Mallory, Mr Wesley, and Mrs McElroy ate in relative silence, apart from the occasional request to "Pass the potatoes" or "Borrow the salt". Later, after they had each eaten their fill, Mallory's aunt retreated to her chambers, leaving the two men alone as they adjourned to the cozy study.

After several minutes of companionable silence, with Mallory sipping at some expensive french wine and Mr Wesley holding a warm cup of tea, Mallory decided to make the first move. "So, Mr Wesley... out there on the rocks - which, by the way, was a truly beautiful spot, thank you - you mentioned that you knew rich kids. But you seem so at home here...?"

Mr Wesley winced, wanting nothing less than to talk about his past, but acquiesced. "Well, I grew up in a very different sort of neighbourhood - middleclass kids, some slightly richer, but I was always a bit of an outcast. I guess I never really fit in there, so it makes sense that I'd fit in somewhere else, I guess. Always did love peace and quiet..." _Well, not really, _he amended,_ but by the end of the war... _"Anyway, you never did tell me what you teach?"

"Err..." Mallory stalled for a moment, trying to think of a convincing lie. "Defence, really."

Curious, Mr Wesley leaned forward. "Like, physical defence? Judo, Karate, that kind of stuff? I didn't realise they taught that at schools... I learnt a bit of that in my senior years, but it was more extra-curricular."

"Yeah, well, it's really just my specialty," Mallory dissembled, and Mr Wesley seemed taken in. "I'm mostly just the sports instructer, but we each have our little favourites, you know?"

Mr Wesley nodded, and Mallory almost sighed in relief, before subtly turning the conversation back on Mr Wesley. "So you were a bit of a fitness freak, then?"

"Yeah, I guess you could say that," Mr Wesley replied, with a strangely sad tone to his voice, before seeming to drift off into memories. Mallory coughed once, then louder, with no effect, before eventually leaning over to prod the other man on the arm.

"Oh, sorry," Mr Wesley said, blushing. "Drifted off there for a moment."

"I noticed," Mallory replied dryly, making Mr Wesley blush in shame. He was tempted to taunt the other man for his lapse, but made a conscious decision to leave it and move on. He had ruined enough friendships in his years, he didn't want to do it again. Even though this man was nothing more than a muggle.

"So..." Mr Wesley continued awkwardly, trying to think of something to say. "Err... so do you enjoy being a teacher?" _Urgh, what a stupid thing to ask..._

Mallory rolled his eyes at the unsubtle move, but responded anyway. "It's alright, there are the good students and the bad students. One of my colleagues absolutely despises it... but then, he has to teach science to the dunderheads. And you should see the messes some of them make!"

Mr Wesley frowned for a second, then shook it off. "He reminds me of that old chem teacher... of course, I have to admit, I was one of the worst of the dunderheads. Never could understand science, only thing worse than that was maths."

Mallory laughed in agreement, before yawning slightly.

Frowning, Mr Wesley looked at the clock, only to see that it was nearing eleven. How time flies, and he hadn't fed Romulus since the morning. Stretching slightly as he stood, he said that it was probably time to go. "After all," he added, "I have to be up with the sun tomorrow."

Groaning at the very thought, Mallory raised himself from the chair, bones cracking in a way one would more expect of his friend. "I still can't comprehend how anyone could willingly wake up that early," he muttered as he walked the other gentleman to the door.

"Well, we all have our little quirks." Smiling at the other man, though making no motion towards physical contact, having never been exposed to much of it, he began to walk down the green path towards the quiet village.

As Mallory began to close the door, however, Mr Wesley walked back up to it, looking the other man in the eyes. "Mallory," he asked, almost hesitantly, "Would you consider us friends?"

"Yes..." the other man replied, slightly confused. If he didn't consider Mr Wesley a friend, why would he have invited him to his house?

"Then... well, it feels a bit odd, you calling me Mr Wesley, especially when I'm not really any older than you, so... call me Blake."

"Alright... Blake," Mallory replied, feeling a little stunned at the level of trust just shown. From what he'd gathered, Mr Wesley didn't allow _anyone_ to use his first name. "Goodnight, Blake," he called out softly, but Blake had already moved from earshot.

_Wait a minute,_ he thought as he turned to reenter his house, _Mr W- Blake is no older than me? _Stunned to stillness, he uttered a very unsophisticated "What the fuck!" before continuing to make his way inside. Certainly, he had many questions to ask Mr- Blake when next they met...


	8. Litha

Chapter 7: Litha 

The next day was the solstice and, to his surprise, Mallory found himself awake not long after seven, though the sun already hung high in the sky. Most days, he would have remained in bed for hours, resting and relaxing like one should on holidays… but today, he wanted answers. Mr Wesley had left him the previous night with many questions that ate at him, and he knew that the other man tended to rise at dawn, even in summer.

Reluctantly, he rolled out of bed and dressed, before making his way over to the old stone building that Mr Wesley called home. It was already quite bright in the little town, and most of the village seemed to be rising, though none seemed to be walking towards the Bed & Breakfast. Shrugging, Mallory continued on his way, and when he reached the door, he pushed on it and continued to walk.

It didn't open.

Confused, Mallory pushed harder, but the door remained obstinately shut. "This is odd," he said aloud, before leaning his back against the solid oak. Mr Wesley was always open at this time of day, Mallory _knew_ that… but where was he? Sighing, Mallory decided he had no choice but to wait. Mr Wesley shouldn't be long, after all.

An hour later, as Mr Wesley made his way back to the old building from what must be the direction of the sea, Mallory was impatiently drumming his fingers on the door as he sat on the stone step. As he saw the frustrated look on his… well, he guessed, his _friend's_ face, Mr Wesley smiled wryly. Having never seen Mallory rise this early, he had not thought to warn him of something that all the village knew.

However, he thought as Mallory began to open his mouth, perhaps his impromptu announcement last night had had more of an impact than he knew. And as Mallory drawled, "Took you long enough, _Blake_," he found himself remembering exactly why he had never bothered to correct the villagers' assumptions about his age.

"I mean, you're entirely too old to be wandering about in the cold air… oh, what was I saying?" Mallory continued, with a fake look of shock, "You're not old at all! Though," he added spitefully, "I suppose it's not so hard a mistake to make." An hour sitting in the cool morning air, _waiting_ for someone, had done little to improve his mood.

Mr Wesley rolled his eyes, ignoring Mallory as he walked around to the more concealed side door. Slipping inside, he made his way to the front door to unbar it, opening the doors onto Mallory's annoyed face. "You were saying, Mallory?"

"I was _saying_," Mallory began, tone irritated, "That it isn't very considerate to keep secrets like that from people you consider your friends."

Mr Wesley rolled his eyes once more. They may be the same age, but sometimes Mallory seemed so much younger than him. But then again, he reflected, he wouldn't have reacted very well to discovering that a friend was hiding things from him… he knew this from experience.

Sighing, he offered, "Look, I'm sorry Mallory. But it's not like I go around telling people this information very often. I'm considered to be middle-aged among the village, and am perfectly content to remain that way. Now, can we continue this inside? The villagers may wait til ten on Litha, but I still have to begin the baking." That said, he turned and made his way towards the kitchen and dragged out his ingredients, quickly getting to work, while Mallory stood and watched.

"Litha?" the blonde asked curiously. "I don't hear many m-," he stumbled over his words for a second, before continuing, "men talk about that. Not in this sort of town, anyway."

"Well," Mr Wesley replied, most of his concentration on the danishes he was filling, glad for his foresight in preparing the pastry the previous night, "I don't talk about that to many people. Even those who know what it _is_ – as you said, not very common in this sort of town."

"Yes…" Mallory replied, curious as to why such a 'common' person would be involved in anything so pagan. "Litha is an old family tradition, though we tend to hold bonfires in the evening… but you're just trying to distract me."

"I might be," Mr Wesley replied half-heartedly, as he put the first tray of pastries into the oven, moving on to the next batch. Slightly annoyed, he added, "What is it you want me to say, Mallory? I already apologised for keeping the truth from you - which, might I add, I would rather you kept from the rest of the town – but it's not like I make a habit of telling this sort of thing to strangers."

"I want…" Mallory hesitated as he thought, before shrugging and saying, "I don't know what I want. I guess I just don't understand why anyone would want to pretend to be OLDER than they are!"

"Not all of us are as vain as you," Mr Wesley muttered quietly, before saying more loudly, "It's the best way to h… to escape notice. People would raise eyebrows at a thirty year old doing the things I do, but by pretending to be the age they expect me, they have no problems with what I do. That makes my life a lot simpler."

"Simpler, yes… but don't you ever long for excitement?"

"No," Mr Wesley replied firmly. "I've had enough excitement to last a lifetime." Determined to finish the conversation there, he walked away to quickly look over the dining area, before inviting in the gentlemen standing outside the door. They knew better than to walk in while he was baking; for all that Mr Wesley had never yelled at anyone that they could see, it tended to distract and disturb him, and they preferred to be courteous. And Mr Wesley had no problems with that.

Mallory was about to chase after Mr Wesley, unwilling to let the conversation die, but one of the villagers grabbed his arm to hold him back. "Let him be, kid, he has enough work without you yammering at him, and he's a chap who needs his privacy."

Sighing, Mallory glared half-heartedly at the man, before admitting inwardly that he was right. For all his curiosity, pestering Mr Wes… _Blake's_ now would only lead to arguments, which wasn't what Mallory wanted at all. After all, if he alienated Mr W- who would he have to talk to? Inwardly, he laughed at his inability to think of the other man by his first name – for all that they were friends of a sort, Mr… Blake seemed so much older than him. It was strange, and somewhat sad.

What was it that had happened to this strangely quiet man, who seemed so determined to be ordinary, but didn't care about money and followed pagan rituals and seemed to be hiding from the world. What could make a man so prematurely old? Silently, Mallory vowed to break down Blake's walls, and find out everything he could about this fascinating muggle he called friend.

He began that morning, subtly involving himself in the conversations of the other villagers until he could feel free to ask questions. But no matter who he asked, the answer was always the same: Mr Wesley arrived nigh on ten years ago, looking not much younger than he did now, and set up his home. He never had any visitors or mail, and the only thing they knew about his past was that it included a young redhead, whom most of the villagers thought was once his love, though some suggested she might be a sister or a very close friend.

"He paints, y'see, and he mostly paints _her_. Not that he's let many of us into his workroom, and even then he only shows us a few isolated paintings," one older lady said, who had been privileged once to enter the study as he searched for some parchment to lend her daughter. "He never talks about her, though."

"He paints, does he?" Mallory muttered to himself. Ten years ago, he would not have thought twice about sneaking into the other man's study – it's not like any of his locks could withstand his entry, after all – but now he felt a strange sense of guilt at the thought. Maybe Mr Wesley would let him in one day… for the meantime, he'd just have to pester the other man until he gave in.

Mallory was always very good at that.


	9. Ginevra

**Chapter 8: Ginevra**

But Mallory Blanc had underestimated his cagey friend. Though time and time again, he would try to enquire about his past, Blake persistently managed to divert and end any conversation that begun to delve too deep. It was as if he was ashamed of his past, afraid of it, and Mallory found himself imagining sometimes what exactly the other man was hiding. Was Blake a mobster? Was that the source of his limp, and those strange scars he once caught sight of, which immediately showed Mallory why Blake never seemed to go shirtless, even in the worst of the summer heat.

Maybe he'd been a drug addict, or a thief, or a murderer... but no, Mallory shook his head in amusement, that was something Mr Wesley could never be. He was always so calm, so self-assured and controlled, not even the strangest of events and actions seemed to phase him. But then again, mallory considered, the other man had been living in this village for almost ten years now, and that sort of thing was bound to rub off.

What if Blake was part of a circus? Mallory laughed in the privacy of his own home, or rather his own room, as he mentally imagined Mr Wesley, who seemed so prematurely aged, in soul more than body, as a clown or a tightrope walker. No, it was impossible, though the thought brought hours of amusement to the young man. But there was definitely _something_ in Mr Wesley's past, or he would never have tried so hard to hide it.

Occasionally, as Blake worked in his kitchen, Mallory found himself comparing notes with some of the younger villagers, who shared his curiosity about the familiar man who remained a stranger to all. But for all the ten years he had spent in the same time, no one knew much more than what Mallory had gathered, and most knew much less. And as the weeks went by, with Blake remaining studiously aloof, it began to appear to Mallory as if this were a mystery never to be solved.

Of course, Blake did not avoid or ignore Mallory, but far from it. They spent many hours walking together around the surrounding areas, or having dinner together with Mallory's cousin, or gazing at the sky, which had more stars than Mallory had ever seen, for all that his own home was electricity free. Their conversations were many and deep, as the two men discussed everything from science to religion, though Mr Wesley often gave mallory strange looks at the former, as if Mallory didn't quite know what he was saying. Which was, he reflected, probably true.

No, it was just the deep topics on which Blake would go silent. And none of Mallory's pestering could get the other man to open up.

Mr Wesley, for his part, found the other man's interest somewhat flattering, and the enthusiasm with which he pursued their walks and conversations filled Mr Wesley with a similar excitement, one he had not felt for over a decade. But eventually, the pestering began to grow annoying, though Blake was too polite to say anything so cold aloud. He was fond of Mallory, though, and despite the irritation and the lack of privacy, he was glad for the company.

He did, however, find it interesting how despite all that Mallory claimed to want to know his past, it was rare for the blond to share any of his own. Blake knew the basics, of course, that the other man had a estranged and now deceased father, that he worked as a teacher, that he enjoyed science fiction, to the shock of many of his friends. But all the details that Mallory wanted from him, were lacking from his own stories, making them seem flat. 2D. That, too, Mr Wesley chose not to mention, in preference for keeping the peace.

But on the topic of his past, Mr Wesley would not budge. Even without the statute of secrecy that prevented him ever airing the truth to a muggle, however insightful and pagan, there was simply too much pain. Too much loss. There was nothing to be gained in bringing it back, and Blake refused to do so. This was his life, now.

And so the weeks passed, with Mallory ever more persistently fishing for information, and Blake ever more stubbornly avoiding answering, even to the point of using the kitchen as an excuse, something he had sworn never to do. And as their friendship strengthened, the two becoming almost inseparable, so too did the tensions caused by this crucial disagreement. Both began to realise that, eventually, someone would have to give. And each was determined to stay their course.

It was the 17th of july that it happened. That day had never been kind to Mallory, so he was almost unsurprised when he came to Blake's place and found it closed. "Predictable," he snorted, for all that he had only seen it closed once before, and walked back towards the village. If he had to wait an hour, he would be doing it from the comfort of his own lounge.

On his way through the village, he ran into a young lady, who seemed to be carrying a basket of bread and cakes. As he lifted her to her feet, he curiously asked, "I don't think I've ever seen nayone else baking in this village, in all my month or so here. What's that for?"

The girl giggled, looking up into his eyes with unfeigned admiration. "Oh... these are just for the folks at the BnB... the Bed & Breakfast, see?"

"No, I don't see," Mallory frowned. "Isn't that Mr Wesley's job?"

"Yes, well," the girl giggled again, and mallory found his foot tapping impatiently as he waited for her to continue. He couldn't abide simpering females. "It's just that Mr Wesley always takes today off, see? He works on easter, an' he works on christmas, but he never works today." Her voice lowered into a whisper, she added, "Folks around here think it's his wedding anniversary," and giggled again, as if it were some terribly romantic secret.

Rolling his eyes, Mallory turned and walked away from the girl, unwilling to be subjected to any more of that behaviour. He never could abide females, though that was probably due to the lack of decent female influences as much as anything, he silently acknowledged. But over the last few days, Mallory had watched Blake become more and more withdrawn, even for him, and he doubted somewhat that today was something so pleasant as an anniversary.

Before he knew it, Mallory found his feet on the path to the rock where Blake had taken him that first day, and though he had not returned there since, he seemed to know the way. As he took the first steps, part of his mind was screaming at him to leave the other man his privacy, but he obstinately ignored it. If he wanted to learn more about his friend, now was his chance. And besides, maybe Blake would like some comfort, if today was as sad as it seemed to be. No one needed to be alone when sad.

It wasn't long before he caught sight of the rock, and indeed, he could see Blake's distinctive profile, staring directly out to see. He was holding something in his hands, like a wreath or a headdress, and he seemed to be speaking to himself, though Mallory could not make out the words over the squalling winds.

As he approached hearing distance, he awkwardly called out a greeting. For all that he wanted to see his friend, he knew better than to try and eavesdrop.

"Hello, yourself," returned Mr Wesley's words over the wind, voice sounding slightly croaky.

"Mind if I come up?" Mallory asked, tentatively. For all that he wanted to know, he wasn't quite so ruthless as to interfere with his friend's mourning. Not anymore, anyway.

"Sure," Mr Wesley replied tiredly, and Mallory quickly climbed to a seat not far from the other man, where he could more comfortably hear his voice. "I suppose you've come to pester me some more, then?" he continued lethargically, sounding every one of the forty years he pretended to be, and Mallory suddenly felt guilty.

"I'm sorry, Blake, I-"

"No, it's alright, Mallory," Blake interrupted. "I know that you're only trying to be a friend, I just... it's easier not to remember." Staring at the wreath, he added something so quiet Mallory couldn't quite discern it, but this time he refrained from asking.

The two sat in silence for several minutes, before Blake closed his eyes in seeming preparation. He knew that Mallory deserved to know, but he also knew that airing the words made them that much more real. But how much longer would Mallory remain his friend, when he realised that Blake was never going to let him in? And despite having thought himself happy alone, he now knew that he couldn't bare to be alone again.

Taking a deep breath, though the words still caught on his throat, he quietly said, "She was my fiance."

Eyes wide, Mallory stared at the other man, shocked at the announcement. After all these weeks... to his relief, Mr Wesley continued before he was obligated to say something, because he didn't have any words.

"We hadn't told her parents, we were going to make it official that night. She was only eighteen, most people would have said we were too young to be considering such a drastic step... but we weren't going to get married until after the w... the world settled down, it was just a way for us to show how much we loved each other. And we weren't very young, either - life had seen to that.

By that time... well, I was in a pretty dark place. I was constantly exhausted, barely sleeping, there always seemed to be so much more work to do, I couldn't bare to fall behind. I wasn't spending as much time on my friendships as i should have, either... she was the only person who made me feel alive. She was so beautiful, with her deep brown eyes, and that glorious red hair... the way she used to play q... cricket with her brothers, the way she would dance when she was excited... the way she would sit in my lap, wiith her hed titled slightly, staring at me as if I was something important..."

Mr Wesley trailed off into silence, and Mallory would have sworn he saw him shaking, were he not so enthralled in the other man's story. Biting back his questions, he waiting patiently for his friend to go on.

"She... god," Mr Wesley swore, to Mallory's slight surprise, "I've never really talked about this before... it was all too close, and then it just became so much easier to bottle it down, to ignore it, like if I pretended she never existed, then it wouldn't hurt so much... but that wasn't fair. She deserves more than that. But... " He sighed, taking a deep, half-choked breath, before shakily continuing, "I was the one who found her, you know. It was dinnertime, and I was waiting to tell everyone the good news, but she never came. We searched the house, and the backyard, and the gully, and the forest... it was midnight when I found her. She was in a little boat in the river, her glorious hair spilling into the water, and I thought she was Guinivere or Sorcha, some beautiful celtic princess out of an ancient tale... she looked so peaceful..."

Mallory winced in anticipation of pain, and he was not disappointed, if disappointed was the word. "When I reached the boat... it was a massacre, Mallory! Her limbs had been torn apart like by some vicious creature, and the boat was stained the rich red of her blood, which slowly began to seep into the water. I took some comfort in the sight that she was cleanly beheaded... at least it was a quick death... but I will never forget that sight. And I know who did it, and why. They did it to get to me, Mallory. They took away the one beautiful thing in my life..."

Mallory frowned slightly, beginning to get a sense of deja vu. It almost sounded like... no, that was impossible. Then Blake continued. "I can't remember the rest of the evening. But I do remember, the next day I began to track down her killers... I made them scream before they died... made them feel the pain they had caused me... all I focused on was revenge, and I think that I began to scare everyone around me. I know that I scared myself. I still do. That's why I try so hard to forget it... I can't be that sort of monster again. I just can't."

Slowly, the pieces began to fall into place - the reticence, the unexpected pagan traditions, the strange feeling of security around Mr Wesley's house... a slightly familiar spark in those almost-green eyes...

As Blake softly whispered, "Oh, Ginny... Ginevra... my love...", a dark fire lit in Mallory's eyes and, turning to face Mr Wesley, who was slowly withdrawing from his painful memories, he angrily spat a single word, rife with meaning.

"Potter."


	10. Potter

**Chapter 9: Potter**

Silence reigned, as each man tried to come to terms with what had just been said. Where, five minutes past, Mallory had sat by his side, offering silent support as Blake aired feelings as he never had before, now his one-time friend glared at him as though he were filth, garbage. Or worse, as if he was nothing. Those two simple syllables, so meaningless individually, now seemed to lie between the two of them as a gaping chasm, unpassable, unavoidable.

Almost trembling from fear, of rejection even more than of discovery, Blake tried to show confusion, hesitently attempting to avoid the issues. "I... I don't understand," he stuttered, eyes wide. "I don't know what you're talking about, Mallory..."

With a vicious rage completely unlike the Mallory Blake had thought he knew, the other man shied away from his touch as if he were a leper, spitting out, "What do you mean you don't understand, _Potter_? Even _you _surely can't be _that _thick... though, then again, maybe you could." Accentuating every syllable, as if talking to an ignorant child, he voiced, "I. Know. Who. You. Are. And I don't know what you thought you were trying to pull by this show..."

"What do you mean, this show?" Blake interrupted, honestly confused. "I don't know who you are, but you have no idea what you're talking about!"

"Yes you do, Potter. 'Oh, look at me, the poor little Boy-Who-Lived. My life is sooo painful, I think I'm just going to run away and cry,'" he continued in a mocking voice. "Searching for false sympathy and attention, as if you didn't receive enough through your youth that was oh-so-tortured with fame and friends and fortune. But you aren't fooling me, Potter, not anymore."

Wincing at the title he had so desperately tried to escape, heartbroken by this betrayal of his trust and friendship, Blake found himself close to tears. But he refused to show his weaknesses in front of this stranger - for, truly, this man was nothing like the funny, intelligent, sympathetic Mallory he had come to know and like - he grew visibly cold, letting Mallory's barbs bounce off him.

Berating himself for ever being so foolish as to trust again, something he had once vowed never to do, he mentally revisited all of Mallory's little mistakes, the misplaced words, the little inconsisties he should, _would _have spotted a long time ago, if he had not been so foolishly sure of himself. And as the signs slowly came together, he raised his eyes to coldly meet those oh-so-familiar blue orbs, meeting his spite with cold hate. "Malfoy."

"Correct." Replied the other man, voice frigid, as Blake looked over the fine, almost elegant features and unusually pale blonde hair, slowly seeing the features of a pointy-faced boy he once knew, so many years ago.

"You killed Ginny," Blake replied, voice catching slightly on the last syllable. Ten painful, lonely years due to this... man.

Sneering in response, Mallo- Malfoy replied, "And you killed my father."

Both men knew that there was nothing more to be said. Both deaths had been necessary, Blake admitted to himself, though he would never mention it to the other man. While the elder Malfoy had been pure evil, his death saving hundreds of lives, the younger Malfoy's spying had been crucial to their success in the war, as had his connection to Snape, and Ginny's death had given Voldemort the overconfidence and Blake the hatred necessary to finish the war. But neither had forgiven the other. And some wounds, some rivalries, run too deep to ever heal.

Slowly getting to his feet, feeling the weight of his past, of the deaths, on his shoulders like never in these ten years, Blake turned his back away from Malfoy, not caring even if the other man should curse him. Hiding the sadness from his voice, though not from his eyes, he quietly said, "Leave."

Draco glared at him, for all that the other man could not see, and opened his mouth as if to refuse. But what was the point? It wasn't as if he wanted to stay here around Potter, living testament to his pathetic loneliness and need, something no Malfoy should ever show. And he had more important things to do than hang around with a bunch of pathetic muggles, he reminded himself, deliberately ignoring how much he had enjoyed those weeks. Then wordlessly, not even bothering to retrieve his few muggle belongings from his cousin, he apparated home.

He really needed a drink.

As Blake heard the distinctive 'pop', he knew that the only friend he had had in ten years was gone, and never coming back. And as he sat back on the rock and stared at the silver-blue waves, the colour of Malfoy's once-smiling eyes, he did not find the comfort he always had before. And, knees folded against his chest and head in his arms, he began to sob.

It was dark when Blake returned to his house, and he stumbled several times on the way. FOr all that he was staring at the path in front of his feet, he simply couldn't focus, couldn't concentrat. All he could think of was Mallory - no, Malfoy! - and his words, and the look in his eyes... but why did it hurt so much? He had only known Mallory for one short month, and neither of them had been completely honest with the other. They hadn't fought trolls together, or gone to exciting events, or even spent a great deal of time together, with all the time he had put into his cooking. How had the man come to mean so much to him?

He was almost tempted to call it a plot, say that it was something Malfoy would do... but he couldn't. Because he had known Mallory, truly known him, not just some facade the other man had put up to torture him. And even if it was a facade, Malfoy would never have revealed such personal things - things that were supported by what little he knew of Malfoy outside of their rivalry - but rather created a fake past, if he could have been bothered to do this to Potter in the first place.

No, for all their childhood rivalry, Malfoy had changed. Or, maybe, Mallory always existed in Malfoy somewhere, and Blake had simply never had the chance to meet him before. But now that he had, he realised that he didn't want to give him up. He didn't want to return to his life of gardening and cooking and walking his dog, that quiet and solitary life he had once longed for. It wasn't enough...

But he had no choice. He had befriended a man who hated him, and Mallory - Malfoy - whatever his name was, would never come back.

Never.

Draco, for his part, apparated straight into the foyer of his mother's manor, for all that it wasn't his home anymore. He supposed that he still subconsciously thought of the old building as home, the place he had grown up and made friends and been loved by his father, once, before he chose a different path. He was greeted by the house-elves, who seemed excited at his return, but he paid them no attention.

Striding purposefully to his father's study, stocked with the highest quality wines and spirits, he made as if to pour a glass of port, before shaking his head. "Not strong enough," he muttered to himself, instead pouring vodka with a shaking hand into the wine glass he had already unpacked.

Downing the vodka in two swallows, letting the warmth of the alcohol pervade through throat and stomach and blood, Mallory slowly released the icy calm he had been fighting to keep. Here, in his father's study, with his mother on holidays, there was no one to see him relinquish the pride and self-control that was so crucial to a Malfoy.

Malfoy's don't cry. But as he reflected on what he had almost had, what Potter's existence had taken from him, Draco felt tears coming to his eyes. As he downed a seond glass of vodka, then a third, he slurred, he angrily threw the expensive crystal at the far wall, slurring unintelligibly. Once again, Potter had destroyed him the way no other could, but he would never see the other man again.

Surely that would make everything alright?


	11. Loneliness

A/N: Okay, not a big authors note-er. But to those who asked about slashiness, well, I don't think this story is going to be anything more than pre-slash. However, am planning on writing a sequel (eventually), which probably WILL be HD… if I can figure out how to write it realistically, that is ;) I did, after all, write it in the story summary… lol…

But thank you all for your kind reviews! huggles all

**Chapter 10: Loneliness**

And so, Mr Wesley returned to his familiar routine. Each morning, he rose with the sun, growing later as the summer grew old. Throwing on his old dressing gown, which now seemed so ragged and forlorn compared with Malfoy's brands and style, he would plod slowly down the old wooden steps, wondering if it was time to fix those creaks and gaps in the surprisingly cold building.

Making his way to the kitchen, as he always did, he would begin to mix and stir and bake, loading tray after tray of delicious pastries into the oven as the morning sunlight streamed into his eyes and the birds began to chirp. The kitchen was spotless, and spotless it remained as he dressed in the same old clothes and opened the door to the same old people who had visited for a decade of mornings.

But something was missing. It wasn't that the food tasted any worse than usual – no, the customers agreed, it was as good as it had ever been. Nor was it the way Mr Wesley kept himself apart from the group, for that was how he had always been. He didn't make any indication of stress or sadness, and the kitchen still seemed to almost glow in the sunlight.

But no, they agreed, it was the _aura_, for all that they would never use such a silly term. For all that everything seemed exactly the same, something had changed. Mr Wesley had changed. And, they agreed, when they noticed the renewed quiet of the temporarily excited kitchen, it was 'that Mallory bloke.'

For all that they had never spent much time with their young visitor, so out of place in their society, all had noticed how the stranger had drawn their Mr Wesley out. The sight of a genuine smile on the other man's face, or a laugh in his voice, had secretly brought joy to the hearts of dozens of worrying villagers, though they knew better than to push the man. And now, with Mallory gone, Mr Wesley had gone back to his old ways of silent support and observation.

And, clearly, it wasn't enough any more.

Mr Wesley sighed softly, as he let the last of his customers outside. All day, people had been pestering him: where did Mallory go, they would ask. Did you two fight? Are you okay, Mr Wesley? You know, I'm always here if you want to talk… initially, it had frustrated him near the point of lashing out. He had never responded well to that sort of pestering, as his old friends could have testified. But, instead, he ignored them and carried on his work. He cut, he diced, he baked. He did everything he had once found so enjoyable… but somehow, it seemed lacking.

For the first time in his ten years of cooking, it felt like work.

As he trudged slowly back up the stairs, unusually exhausted, he found his mind turning to those who were once his best friends. They were so like the villagers, really. Always wanting to know what was going on, what he was feeling, how they could help. So often, he had blown up at them for that… he had always had such a hot temper. But, for some strange reason, they kept talking, kept trying to stay close to him.

He tried to push them away, of course, much like he pushed the villagers away… like he should have pushed Mallory away… but, like Mallory, they had refused to budge, even when he left the school for the war. Ron and Hermione… Ginny… they had always stood by him, no matter what. They were the best friends he could ever have…

And all of them died. All of them. Because of him. Professor McGonagal, Luna, Neville, all of them had tried to save him that blame. But he knew that they died because of who he was. He vowed, then, that he would never let anyone grow so close again. Because, for all that he had defeated the Dark Lord, for all that he was a new person, with a new life, where even Dumbledore, had he lived, could not find him, some things remained the same.

People died. People left you. "It isn't worth it," he said quietly to himself, staring at his shoes through watery eyes. "Not worth the pain."

"Yes, it is," replied a voice. Bewildered, Mr Wesley looked up – no person could get into these chambers, not with his locks and wards and safeguards. But no, as his conscious mind wandered, his feet seemed to have taken him to the very place he wanted least to be.

Turning, he began to open the door – how had he opened it before and not realised, he wondered – when the voice spoke again. "Harry James Potter, you will _not_ leave this room. Now, turn around…"

Ignoring the voice, Mr Wesley began to turn the knob, to escape… but as the voice continued to berate him, he gave up. "What do you want, Sirius?"

From the painting on the wall, the young man glared at him through dark eyes. "What do you mean, what do I want? I want my godson to talk to me, that's what I want! Clearly, you're upset about something, or you wouldn't have come in here… so talk!"

As echoes of assent came from the other portraits, Mr Wesley sighed. "Can't I just have some quiet, Siri? I don't feel like talking."

"Harry," a softer voice said, "You never do. You hide your feelings inside, bottle them up, as if ignoring them will make them go away. But it's not good for you, child. You saw the way you were after Ginny…"

"What are you, my psychologist?" Blake snapped angrily.

"If that's what you need me to be, Harry."

"I don't need a psychologist," he replied, shaking his head. "I just need to be left alone, that's all!"

"You need a friend," replied a female voice, full of care.

"No!" Mr Wesley denied. "All friends do is bring pain. They leave you, they abandon you, and you're left all alone… all alone…"

Over his downcast eyes, the four portraits exchanged meaningful looks, as the amber-eyed man began to talk again. "Harry, child, do you think I don't know how you're feeling? I lost James and Lily… I thought I lost Pettigrew… and Sirius, twice! I know that it's painful, I do. But would you rather have had no friends at all?"

"Yes!"

"Really?" Those golden eyes seemed to stare straight into Blake's soul, and he had to avert his glance. "Would you really have sacrificed the love and joy you had with Ron and Hermione, to selfishly save yourself pain. And what if you had never loved? What would that have meant for the world, Harry? Without love of the light, why would you have fought?"

"I don't care," Blake replied sullenly.

"Yes, you do. That's what makes you you. If you didn't care, you wouldn't be so upset about losing people. But you can't go your whole life alone, child. It's been ten years, and it's time for you to move on."

"But what if I don't want to? What if I'm happy here, as I am?"

"If you're truly happy, then by all means, do what you do. But," he added, as Blake began to look up, "I don't think you _are_ happy. And if you don't find what you need to be happy, all that we fought for is in vain."

"But…"

"No, Harry," replied the last man, hazel eyes full of determination. "I haven't been much of a father to you, it's true – that role belonged more to these two fools. But I command you to find what makes you happy and do it. Because, if you don't, our sacrifice is meaningless."

"We love you, Harry," echoed his wife, smiling warmly. "And we know what's best for you, even if you don't."

Sighing, Blake walked out of the room and locked the door, before collapsing on his bed. He knew he had to obey his father, and even that the portrait was right, but… how could he, now that Mallory had gone away? How could he ever find a friend like that again?


	12. Draco

**Chapter 11: Draco**

Draco Malfoy was a solitary sort of person. For all that he had been acquitted of all his war crimes, for his crucial spying role, the Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs of the world had never really forgiven him. Nor would they ever truly trust the man who had once been so cruel, as if blood and the past were more important than the present. Sometimes, Draco found it ironic, how much even the most egalitarian people judged on blood terms.

But Draco didn't really mind. He had always preferred his solitude, even as a child, though perhaps he had had no choice. And he could think of little worse than to be considered one of the Gryffindorks. Not, he thought snidely to himself, that there were many of them left, now – the war had decimated both sides equally, and it had taken years for Wizarding Britain to begin to recover. Even now, with the first post-war generation soon to overflow Hogwarts, and increased immigration under the changed Security laws, it would be generations before they reached their past levels of population and prosperity.

At least, he thought to himself, Minister Zabini's new legislation was helping to prevent the creation of another Riddle. It had been a bit of a surprise to the community when a young Slytherin was elected, but he had certainly done an excellent job so far. Though perhaps they had Potter to thank for that – in the first few months after the war, before he left forever, he had not only told the world the story of Tom Riddle, but had lead the fight against such anti-slytherin discrimination. And Draco would always be grateful for Potter's defence of his godfather, despite the hatred between the two men.

Obstinately, he tried to turn his mind from the other wizard. But with his mother away, and his few friends busy with their own jobs, he had little else left but thought. And, he began to realise, Harry Potter had always been interwoven into his memories, even when… no, even _though_ he hated him.

Sometimes, he wondered why he hadn't betrayed the other's location to the headmistress. It would certainly have made her happy, and Draco had always been fond of the old transfiguration professor, who had determinedly supported he and Severus against the parents in those early days. And, more, it would hurt Potter, something he had spent his entire life trying to do.

And yet, for some reason, he held his tongue. When Tracy asked why he had returned so early, he avoided the questions, or said something vague about muggles or lesson plans. He threw himself into his work and, within a week or so, his lessons were planned and he had begun to search for boggarts, anything to occupy his mind and time. Everything was going so well…

And yet, something was missing. And, as the days went by, he grew more and more unsatisfied.

Draco had been home for two weeks, now, but there had been no change. And, though they would never admit so unSlytherin a feeling, they were beginning to worry about their friend. Ever since he had returned from that holiday, he had been acting strangely discontent, as if he had discovered something essential there. But what could it be? It wasn't as if he liked muggles suddenly, he had made that quite clear. And he still looked down on the 'plebeians' and avoided nature and did everything that Draco Malfoy had always done, with the same attitude he had always had.

But it was there, hiding beneath his affectations and pretensions – a feeling of dissatisfaction, or even unhappiness. He was working too hard… or much harder than he usually did, as he had ever been slightly lazy. He forgot their meetings, when he had always been so punctual and, when they _did_ see him, he had stopped talking about himself and started _listening_, which had several times stunned Tracy into silence.

Severus had actually seen him make a mistake in his brewing, something that hadn't happened since his sixth year, though the other man was quick enough to realise and fix it. And, for the first time, his flawless appearance was marred by the presence of dark bags under his tired-looking eyes, as if he had stopped sleeping correctly.

And, he had stopped flying.

Yes, they all agreed, there was something very wrong with Draco Malfoy. But what could they do? He steadfastly resisted all attempts to discuss his holiday, and all their spying and cunning plans revealed little to nothing. He hadn't brought any souvenirs with him, or photos, though that was hardly surprising, and he never wrote anyone, though he had burnt several pieces of parchment over the weeks. Tracy was beginning to get disheartened.

Finally, Severus succeeded in doing what the younger Slytherins couldn't. Apparating to Draco's mansion, he found the other man staring dully at a blank sheet of parchment, a cup of coffee growing cold beside his hand. Forcing him to his feet, he sent the other man to shower and dress, before apparating him to the restaurant, where the others had waited for almost an hour.

"What was he doing, Severus?" Tracy enquired, touching his sleeve with he left hand.

"Nothing," Severus replied laconically.

"What do you mean, nothing?" she exclaimed. "We _always_ meet here tonight, for ten years now, and you're saying he was just doing nothing?"

"I am here, you know," Draco interjected, grumbling.

Raising an eyebrow, Blaise replied, "It speaks!" with a faked astonished look on his face. "We were beginning to think you had joined the living dead, Draco."

Looking slightly abashed, Draco took his seat by the others, as each ordered their meals, and slowly they began to draw Draco into conversation. He still refused to talk about his vacation, but the four Slytherins were content to reminisce on past times, and to discuss the current state of the Wizarding world. Severus was beginning to indicate a desire to retire from Hogwarts and return to potions research, as soon as he could find a suitable replacement, while Blaise was considering getting the ministry to subsidise Hogwarts' fees for the lesser off, something which gathered Draco a glare when he snorted audibly at the idea.

Then, eventually, as the conversation turned, Blaise brought up Draco's favourite topic, something certain to get the other man talking like he used to. "Can you believe," he said idly, lifting his glass slightly, "That all around us, wizards are celebrating Harry Potter Day?"

"Ten years since the war," Tracy added, smiling. "Though I still can't believe you named it after that Gryffindor, _minister_."

"What could I do?" Blaise asked, repeating the old question. "I had to make the proles happy, if I was going to consolidate my position. And some of them are _still_ afraid to speak Voldemort's name."

This was the part where Draco would jump in, ranting about how Potter got all these accolades that he shouldn't, and so on… but as they glanced at him expectantly, he simply sighed quietly and muttered a confirmation, eyes glazing as he seemed to drift into his own thoughts.

The three others exchanged significant glances.

"I mean," Blaise stressed, taking Draco's role to draw him in, "that they are celebrating how that Gryffindork Hero defeated the Evil Slytherin Menace, and single-handedly saved us all. It's not that I'm ungrateful for his role in the war, I'm incredibly glad to have survived, and he certainly helped us afterwards, too. But it's a bit ridiculous, all this hero worship, when he wasn't even strong enough to stay and help rebuild…" he trailed off, bewildered, as Draco got to his feet.

"I'm sorry," Draco began, shocking them all, as Malfoys _never_ apologise, "But I was supposed to meet someone tonight."

And without another word, he apparated away, leaving his confused friends staring at the empty chair.

"Well," Blaise said, articulating their thoughts, "That was strange."


	13. Once more, with feeling

**Chapter 12: Once more, with feeling.**

Two weeks had passed, and nothing had changed. The bags under Mr Wesley's eyes, which had once surprised his concerned neighbours so, now seemed as permanent a fixture as his limp, which was growing more pronounced for all that the weather remained warm.. He was beginning to lose weight, too, and though he continued to politely interact with his customers and smile that little half-smile, the sadness never left his eyes.

His once-beautiful garden, the envy of several villagers, was beginning to fall into disrepair, as Mr Wesley seemed to abandon it to the weeds. And he had begun to systematically refuse all dinner invitations, or indeed any attempts to communicate at all, though he surely never had time to cook any food for himself. It was like when he had first arrived there, so insular and distrustful, like some sort of abused dog, wary of any kindness. And some of the villagers had begun to worry how long it would take to draw him out once more.

The only thing that stayed constant were his walks, which he seemed to take ever more frequently – long, rambling strolls with his big black dog which, almost seeming to feel his owner's sadness, gambolled and played like a young pup. But Mr Wesley took cares to avoid any chance of company, going far from his way at the very sight of a fellow human. And equally, he avoided the rock that had once brought him such peace, though he continued to walk along the shore – there were just too many bad memories. Too many thoughts to avoid.

But on July 31st, hid mind lost a decade earlier, he found his feet subconsciously wandering down that old familiar path. And as he looked over the sapphire sea, defiantly calm as if in mockery of his pain, he sighed quietly. "Happy Birthday, Harry," he whispered, as he idly traced the shape of a cake on the warm stone like he had done when he was very small, oblivious to his surroundings.

"Happy Birthday, Potter."

Shocked, Blake spun on his knees, almost losing his balance and tumbling when he saw those painfully familiar eyes. Subconsciously wrapping his arms around his chest, as if to protect himself from the other man, he defensively asked, "What do you want, Malfoy? Haven't you had enough? Just leave me alone…" he trailed off, sadly.

Sighing, with a strangely gentle look to his eyes, Draco sat down beside him, and Blake couldn't help but notice the dirt accumulating on his fancy clothes, while growing even more aware of how little the other man belonged here. Draco hesitantly shifted his hand, almost as if to reach towards Blake, but quickly withdrew it. Then, tentatively, uncomfortably, he said, "I think… I think I owe you an apology."

Blake blinked quietly, stunned. "An… apology?" he stuttered.

"Yes… well…" Draco began to fidget uncomfortably. "I shouldn't have said what I did to you before, it was cruel and thoughtless. You couldn't have known… I was just shocked, you know? And… Ireallymissedyousowillyoubemyfriendagain?" he added rapidly, as if it was the only way he could voice it.

Blake was silent for a moment, as he tried to decipher Draco's last statement. "I…" he hesitated, afraid of letting the other man in again. He had known Malfoy, knew that it would not be above the other man to do this just to break him… but he caught sight of the genuine sorrow in the other man's eyes, and remembered that people could change. He had. Smiling slightly, he offered, "I… I missed you too, Mallo- sorry, Malfoy."

Draco returned his smile, relieved. "You can still call me Mallory, if you like… I have to be called by it here, anyway… or… maybe Draco?"

"Draco," Blake voiced, feeling the strange sensation of the name on his tongue. "I think that'll take a bit of getting used to."

Draco snorted. "Just a bit, Harry. But maybe it'll be easier, too, you know? Not having all those old connotations, allowing us to focus on the future not that past…"

Blake laughed. "I never would have thought to see such a cliché out of _your_ mouth, Draco."

"There's a lot you don't know about me, Harry," Draco replied in a deep voice, an amused glint in his eyes."

Sobering slightly at the name, Blake tentatively said, "Only… can you not call me Harry? I'm Blake Wesley, Draco. Harry Potter died when his duty did, ten years ago. And I don't want to be him again."

Draco looked at him in disapproval. "You can't keep running from your past, _Harry_. If I could stumble on you and figure it out, anyone could. And, besides, how can you be truly happy without acknowledging who you are? Without your _magic_?"

"I'm happy," Blake denied. "I've been happier these past ten years than I ever had in my life."

"No, you're not. You may think you are, you may even be happy in comparison, but you're not. You're content, perhaps, but you're lonely, however much you deny it, and you're old before your time. You live like you're eighty, as if there's nothing left of interest in the world, when there's so much you have to do and see. You can't just let life pass you by, and you _can't_ think that this boring life makes you happy. Because even your customers can see that."

Blake sighed. "I'm not like you, Draco. And I told you before, I don't want to go back to that world, to the idolisations and expectations and guilt. Harry Potter was a creation of the masses to 'save' them, and he serves no purpose anymore, but to bring me pain. And anyway, there's nothing left to see. Ron is dead, Hermione, Ginny, Seamus, Dean, the twins… so many lost… so many memories… I couldn't handle it, Draco."

Draco sighed. "Just… think about it, Harry. I know the Headmistress and the Longbottoms would love to see you again. You should have seen them after you vanished, they were frantic. It was really quite funny at the time."

"No, Draco," Blake said, firmly. "However, I must say that I'm curious… why didn't you tell them where I was?"

"I… I don't know," Draco replied, shrugging. "I suppose people change. But I'm glad I didn't tell them… I think you should."

"Maybe one day," Blake replied doubtfully, not wanting to continue the disagreement, though surely his misgivings were clear in his eyes. "But enough for now," he interjected, noticing the fading light. "It's getting late, we should get back. Are you still staying with your cousin?"

"Er…" Draco replied.

"I'll take it you haven't told her of your return, then," Blake replied, amused. He had always seen Malfoy as organised, even when he hated him. "Did you bring any of your gear with you at all?"

Draco looked bashful. "I actually just skipped out of a dinner… as you can see," he added, indicating his slightly dusty but incredibly upper class clothing. "It was spur of the moment, really, so I have absolutely nothing. I didn't even know if you'd see me… should I go?"

Smiling, Blake helped his friend to his feet. "No, no, don't even think about it. I've a spare bed in my quarters, though it's never been used, and we're about the same size. I'm sure I can find something for you… though it won't be of your usual quality. You'll probably have to visit the manor tomorrow, though… that is, if you're intending on staying?" he added, not wanting to overstep his bounds.

"Of course," Draco replied, smiling.

And, as the two men walked back across the fields, side by side in the growing darkness, one might hear a quiet voice saying, "I'm glad you're back."

"Me too, Harry. Me too."


	14. Dawn

**Chapter 13: Dawn**

On the morning of August 1st, the villagers slowly began to trickle into the Bed and Breakfast around eight, like they always did. The room was as clean as always, the room warm and inviting… yet, something was missing. There was no tantalising scents of baking, wafting out through the open doorway. There was no sound of boiling kettle or clanging trays, for all that Mr Wesley was notoriously careful. The knives and forks, usually lovingly displayed on the central tables, were missing completely.

And, when they peered into the kitchen, usually so full of activity, not only was there no food to be seen, nor any indication of future cooking… there was no Mr Wesley, either.

Minutes passed, and the villagers began to worry. What could have happened to Mr Wesley, that he would abandon this activity, which was such a constant in all their lives? How could his lethargy have grown so great? Or was it something different? Maybe he was sick; though, now that they thought, Mr Wesley had never once shown any signs of even the slightest cold. Was he injured, perhaps – had he cut his fingers on a knife, and was even now fixing himself up? What if it was something worse, what if he needed help? Had _anyone_ seen him last night?

Half an hour passed, and the discussions grew steadily more concerned. This was not like Mr Wesley, not like him at all. Mr Clary was almost at the point of sending out a search party, however, when they were surprised by the sound of whistling. It was barely audible to begin with, under the loud chatter, but as the villagers began to listen, it could be heard more clearly – a simple, happy little tune, without any unduly high notes. And, they realised, it was coming from just outside the house.

Curious, and not a little concerned for the young man, Mrs Eddison poked her head out the back door to enquire, as the rest of the crowd waited eagerly. But as she stepped out the back door, she was surprised to see the oblivious form of Mr Wesley, happily pruning his roses, which seemed incomparably different to the sight she had seen just the previous day.

As if he had felt her presence somehow, or maybe heard her open the door, he gently laid his secateurs on a drier patch of rock, before turning to face his new companion. "Mrs Eddison!" he exclaimed, surprised. "What brings you here so early?"

Smiling slightly at the rare smile on the other man's face, something that took years off him, she amusedly replied, "It's after nine, young Blake. And the villagers are currently trying to decide whether you've caught the Black Death or been mauled by a bear. I do believe there may be some dredging of the river planned for the afternoon."

Shocked, Mr Wesley began to stammer. "I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to worry anyone," he began, as if ashamed of the fact that they cared. "I simply lost track of the time, you know? When I saw how damaged my poor darlings had grown… well, I just had to do something!" Affectionately touching one of the roses, he caught sight of the dirt on his hands, and added, "I'll just quickly go clean myself up, then I'll get right back into the kitchen. Can you tell the others, before they start planning my funeral?"

"Of course, young Blake," she replied warmly, glad to see the younger man in such a good mood. "And," she added, as he began to almost skip up the stairs, "I'm glad to see you happy again."

For all that it had begun late, and the tension beforehand, it was widely agreed among the residents of St Just that this was one of Mr Wesley's finest breakfasts. There seemed to be a special something more to the seasonings, quite apart from spices, though he had in fact attempted several new concoctions, each absolutely delightful. No, they agreed, it was his attitude. It wasn't until they saw Mr Wesley that bright summer morning, smiling slightly as he put the food on the table, whistling slightly in the background, with a spring in his step and almost friendly greetings for the visitors, that they realised just how quiet and withdrawn he had always been. But today Mr Wesley seemed alive, for the first time in ten years.

Many suggestions began to make their way into the low buzz of conversation. Could he have family or friends who had contacted him, even after all this time? Maybe _she_ was coming back to him, if she had left, or was still alive, if he had thought her dead. Maybe he had won a contest, one person suggested, though that drew several disdainful looks – anyone who knew Mr Wesley at all, knew that he preferred to stay out of the spotlight. Maybe, some of the youngfolk suggested, to the despair of their elders, he had been 'shagged.' But whatever it was, everyone was curious.

Then, not long past ten, their answer stumbled upon them. Dressed in a faded cotton shirt, and old jeans that looked vaguely familiar, with eyes slightly glazed from tiredness and hair still tousled from bed, Mallory Blanc almost fell down the stairs, before drinking two mugs of strong black coffee before their astonished eyes.

"Blake Wesley," he said quietly as he put down the second mug, the whole room leaning in to hear, "You are my God. You just can't buy coffee like this in London! Believe me, I've looked."

Laughing, Mr Wesley walked out of the kitchen, a steaming tray of pancakes in his hand. This was his special recipe, villagers murmured to each other, only made for special occasions, as they intently watched the two men interact. "Here, Mal," Mr Wesley replied, with a strange affection to his voice they had never before seen, "Get some of this into you. Can't have my worshippers dying of starvation, after all."

He was still chuckling fondly as he walked back into the kitchen, while Mallory ravenously attacked the first pancake, almost like a starved man, though he had lost nowhere near as much weight as their Mr Wesley. Quickly, though more sedately, the rest of the villagers joined him, each eager to get their hands on a share and, more, to pester young Mallory. Perhaps, where Mr Wesley had remained strong, Mallory would tell…?

They had been confused, when Mallory vanished without a word, and lost as they saw Mr Wesley's subsequent despair. But now, seeing him again, and the impact he had had on Mr Wesley… they were baffled. Uncontrollably curious, young Hannah Fitzgerald asked what the whole room had been dying to know. "Where did you go, Mr Blanc?"

"Er," replied Mallory, fidgeting uncomfortably at the focused attention, "I had to return home suddenly… my mother was ill," he added, almost as an afterthought, though the villagers nodded, accepting the explanation.

"Is she better now?" Hannah asked, before her elders could shush her.

"Er… yes, she's fine, she's gone off to France now, all that fresh air… anyway, I think Blake could do with some help," he said, retreating to the kitchen, though all of them could have told him that Mr Wesley never accepted help, no matter how busy. But minutes passed, and when Mallory failed to reappear, the villagers began to realise just how close this stranger had managed to grow to their Mr Wesley, in not even two months.

It was strange.

If any of the villagers could have heard past Draco's hastily-cast _silencio_ on the kitchen door, they might have been much more confused.

Idly spinning his wand between his fingers, Draco sat on the bench and watched, as Blake washed the plates and trays by hand. "You know, Harry," he suggested, "They would get done a great deal faster if you would use magic. And don't try to tell me that that isn't your wand in your pocket."

Blake smiled fondly. "You purebloods are always trying to accelerate things using magic, but sometimes it's simply better to use your hands. And drying by towel is certainly superior for avoiding germs, so much so that even house-elves do it. Besides, it's relaxing."

Draco raised his eyebrow in disagreement, but knew better than to disparage muggles in Blake's presence. And, besides, for all their primitiveness, he'd found them to be generally decent people, quite unlike what his father had always said.

"But anyway," Blake added a few minutes later, as he placed the last plate on the dish-rack to drip, "What brings you in here, Draco? Shouldn't you be eating? I expect those pancakes to be finished, you know," he added firmly, though not without a smile in his eyes.

"I'm sure the villagers have that well in hand," Draco replied, smirking, before weakly adding, "And… I wanted to help you?"

Harry snorted. "You're a Slytherin, Draco! You should be able to lie better than _that_!"

"Well…" Draco responded, shamefully, "I'm kind of… hiding from the villagers."

Harry laughed. "Hiding? You?"

"They keep asking me questions, staring at me… it's disconcerting. How did you ever survive in Hogwarts?"

"I didn't," Blake replied. "Well, not really – I didn't even return for my last year, remember? Anyway, you have to eat some pancakes before they take them all – you're too thin, Draco!"

"Only if you do too, Harry," Draco replied stubbornly. "You look about as fleshy as a skeleton."

Opening his mouth to disagree, Blake caught sight of the determined look in Draco's eyes, before sighing in acquiescence. "If I must… mother…" he muttered, as he followed Draco out into the dining room. "But don't think this will decrease the stares."


	15. And why the sea is boiling hot

**Chapter 14: Of why the sea is boiling hot**

From that day forward, Mr Wesley and young Mallory Blanc were scarcely seen apart. To the surprise of the villagers, that first day of so-called help in the kitchen turned into a series of occasions, as Mr Wesley even began to teach Mallory some of his skills, with a gentleness and patience like that they had only before seen around children. It was even thought that Mr Wesley taught Mallory some of his own recipes, which none of the villagers had ever managed to convince him out of, though neither would discuss their activities with others.

They walked together like they always had, traversing nearly every inch of the surrounding countryside with Romulus romping around them almost like a young pup. They worked in the gardens together, too, though after a few horrific mistakes between saplings and weeds, Mallory had been firmly banished from Mr Wesley's precious roses. Though Mallory complained, quite loudly, to Mr Wesley's mixed annoyance and amusement, from the glint in his eyes it could almost be thought he was happy to stay out of the dirt. All such whining ceased immediately, however, after Mr Wesley scratched himself quite deeply on his thorns, distracted by some snide comment or another.

Mallory bandaged it up, though not without first almost using cough syrup instead of dettol, to the bewilderment of Mrs Eddison, who had overheard Mr Wesley's amused instructions to the young man, who seemed to know nothing about the real world.

They fished together, Mr Wesley's first time out in years; though this, too, needed to be taught, throughout constant complaints about the smell and the scales and the mess. Mallory certainly seemed to enjoy driving the smallish speedboat Mr Wesley had hired, however, speeding through the waters with the wind and spray in his now loose hair. And at one point, Mallory needed to be driven to the nearest town to have a hook removed from his finger, having been entirely too careless with his line. Mr Wesley drove him, making snide comments all the way, with an unusual twinkle in his eyes.

Mallory later revenged himself by catching the largest snapper the village had ever seen, and proceeded to rib Mr Wesley about it for weeks. Mr Wesley filleted it for his more squeamish friend, and the smell of fried fish wafting over the village made dozens of mouths water.

And, of course, they talked. They talked of everything and nothing, of politics and religion and money and war, topics almost taboo amongst polite society, though their discussions never seemed to degenerate into arguments. Mr Wesley tended to back off before that could happen, to what could almost be seen as Mallory's annoyance. Those who stayed in the building, though not understanding the fascination with the pair, mentioned that they could hear faint voices from Mr Wesley's chambers late into the night, however.

They talked about history and current affairs, with Mr Wesley's tone almost instructive, though not in a patronising way, as if he were trying to force Mallory to listen and remember, though that would have been completely unlike him, even were it possible for Mallory to know so little about his world. Eventually, however, Mallory's annoyed acceptance transformed into a seeming thirst for knowledge, though he seemed strangely focused on old myths and legends.

They talked about books, Mallory seeming to continually surprise Mr Wesley with his low comments, which none of the curious villagers could ever seem to make out, to their continual dismay. And music, and theatre, where Mallory would almost babble in his excitement, Mr Wesley fondly accepting the role of listener.

They never seemed to discuss their lives anymore, though. But perhaps that was as expected – Mr Wesley was a private person, after all.

"I have to go back, you know," Draco muttered quietly into the gathering darkness, the words almost seeming forced through his unwilling lips. He didn't want to break the companionable silence, didn't want reality to impinge on these rare days, stolen from a life too hectic. But yet, he had no choice.

Voice slightly confused, pulled from his concentration, Blake asked Draco to repeat himself, sure he'd heard wrong. But the light tone to his voice was belied by the fear growing in his still-hazel eyes.

"I have to go back," Mallory repeated, voice fraught with sadness. "I have a job, Harry, and I can't simply up and leave. I have friends who will miss me, who have already been pestering me about my whereabouts," he added, studiously ignoring his friend's doubting face. He had never succeeded in convincing Harry that Blaise and Pansy, Slytherin to the bone, let alone _Snape_, could truly care for another human being. "My mother expected me back over a week ago, now, and I'm sure it's only her belief I'm rooming with muggles that has saved me from a howler!"

"But… I thought…" Blake's words trailed off, as he realised that he hadn't thought at all. He had been so enthused at discovering the real Draco Malfoy, behind all the masks and assumptions and expectations that had dominated their long relationship, so moved by the experience of being truly relaxed in another's presence, in truly _trusting_ someone after over a decade of loneliness. Distracted by the secrets he had never truly bared and the honour of Draco's trust, by the laughter he had missed more than he knew, he had forgotten that there was another world out there. A world in which Draco belonged like he never could in that quiet, uneventful muggle village.

And besides, Draco had responsibilities, and Blake knew better than to try and keep him from them, after his own earlier experiences, however much some might think he had abandoned his after Voldemort's death. How would the staff and students cope without him?

Quietly, as he came to terms with the reality of the situation, his recently vibrant eyes grew closed. "Of course you must," he replied quietly, turning his head away to avoid showing the slight sheen to his eyes. Why was he so hurt, anyway? It wasn't as if he wouldn't see the other man again or, heaven forbid, he couldn't survive without him. He just didn't want to.

A frown grew on Draco's usually unmarked brow, as he saw his habitually expressive friend grow so blank, so much like he had been when they last met, not long before Harry Potter left the Wizarding world for good. Leaning over to where Harry idly sifted the soil through his fingers, his mind far from his garden, Draco gently placed his hand on Harry's, ignoring the dirt that clung obstinately to the gardener's larger fingers. "I don't _want_ to go, Harry," he began sadly, "I'd like nothing better than to stay, but…"

"I know," Blake interrupted before he could finish his sentence, gently separating their fingers. "The Wizarding world is your world, how could it be otherwise? You're a pureblood, of an old family, and it's where you belong. And with term beginning so soon…"

"I know," Mallory replied quietly, sitting beside him on the damp grass, barely noticing the stains on his clothes.

And the two men sat together in silence, each lost in his own thoughts, feeling the weight of the world crushing down on them. Neither had had such a friend, never such a connection with another person, for all that they had once been the greatest of rivals. And, though both knew they would never part forever, they couldn't feel it.

Then, voice incongruously loud in the crisp night, Draco ventured, "You could come with me?"


	16. And whether pigs have wings

**Chapter 15: And Whether Pigs have Wings**

"What?" he asked loudly, expression indecipherable beneath the shadows of the bushes, voice a strange mixture of surprise and fear.

"You could come with me," Draco repeated, voice full of renewed excitement. "There are plenty of people who would love to see you back, people who still miss you terribly. Even Severus would be glad to see your scruffy face again, I think, for all that you would never get him to admit it – despite his snarking, you won his respect by the end. And Minerva, and the Longbottoms, and the whole Wizarding world really, it's scary how much they adore you now you've been gone. And there's so much new I want to show you, that you've missed out on…" It was clear he had wanted this for some time.

"No."

"What do you mean, no?" Draco asked, confused by the toneless rebuttal. "The Wizarding world is your world too, Harry, it's where you belong, for all that you think you're happy here. And don't try to tell me you don't miss it – I've seen your paintings, remember; which, I might remind you, would be worth a great deal of money to the right buyers. You're aging here, Harry, you haven't lived properly for nearly a decade. You can't say that this place is your home like Hogwarts was, because it _isn't_."

"_No,"_ Blake reiterated, louder this time.

"I know you don't like the fame," Draco continued, ignoring his attempts to refuse, "but it's not like you'd have to go out in public much or anything. We could even keep the glamour up if you wanted, keep the name, just tell those people who really matter, though I must say I'd rather like to see how you truly look, after all these years. And…"

"God damn it, Draco, I said _NO!"_ Blake exclaimed, only maintaining his volume to maintain their secrecy. "How many times must I tell you? I. Don't. Want. To. Go. Back!"

"But…"

"No! I don't want to see the magic everywhere I go, to hear people singing my praises and the rebuilding of the world I knew. I don't want to walk those familiar ways, seeing the shadows of the people who should still be there… should still be there…"

As he trailed off into sad memories, Draco couldn't help but put an arm around his friend and hug him softly, as if to keep the sorrows away. Gently, he replied, "You can't keep running from the past, you know."

"Why not?" Blake replied, sullenly.

"It's part of who you are, and… well, until you accept it, you'll never be able to move on. If you don't face your ghosts, they'll haunt you forever, and you deserve better than that."

"Now you sound like Remus," he replied, sadly.

"Well, he's…" he hesitated, before continuing, "he _was_ right. Severus told me that, a long time ago, when the guilt from my deeds grew too much. I was a spy, remember? Whatever it is you think you did, Harry, whatever it is you're trying to hide from, have been running from these ten years, _my deeds were worse_."

Seeing Blake's unconvinced face, Draco couldn't help but sigh slightly. The subject had been effectively taboo between the two, and he knew it would hurt his friend, but he felt it might be the only way to get through. And so, quietly, his patented Malfoy calm unable to hide the shame in his voice, he added, "I killed Ginny, remember?"

Shoulders noticeably tensing beneath Draco's still-present arm, Blake made no response, simply turning his head away in sorrow. Though lessened with time, that memory would never cease hurting.

"Harry?"

Quietly, all anger leached out of him, Blake replied, "I like Blake Wesley. I like his job, his town, the simplicity and comfort of his life. Harry Potter is dead now, if he ever truly lived at all, and to revisit his world would bring nothing but pain. To everyone."

Then, standing, Blake slowly began to walk back to the building, leaving Draco alone in the dark.

After that night neither brought up the topic again, though the discussion had never really been resolved. Instead, they seemed to come to a silent agreement to make the most of their remaining days together. Blake taught Draco how to sail a catamaran, which he took to with surprising ease, and the duo even went scuba diving when they visited the bigger settlement of Exeter, to the shock of the villagers, who had never anticipated such youthful behaviour from one of their own, who seemed increasingly less like his age.

Everything they did was full of excitement, even of happiness, with their mouths frequently smiling and Mr Wesley actually heard to laugh. And yet, there seemed to be an aura of sadness over the two men, though imperceptible in words or tone or gestures, a faint brittleness to their joyous demeanour.

Mr Wesley ran his business with the same fervour, nothing like during the weeks of Mallory's absence, and their conversations remained equally excited, speaking fast and thinking faster. Yet, it could not be denied that there was an anxiousness to the way they hurried, as if not wanting to waste a moment of time, and the way they only seemed to have eyes and ears for one another. It was as if something was coming, something terrible and strange that would change everything, though none could think of what it would be.

Then, all too soon, came September first.

Mallory rose early that morning, earlier than they had ever seen him before, stumbling downstairs for his usual dose of caffeine barely after the doors opened. He offered no explanation or motivation, merely enjoyed his breakfast as in any other day. But beneath Mr Wesley's friendly ribbing and Mallory's snide rebuttals, there was an undercurrent of something else, something the villagers couldn't quite seem to decipher.

The villagers put the feeling down to shock, and soon the room regained its customary cheer, as each person went about their business as on any other day, Mallory and Mr Wesley included. Then, after seemingly no time at all, the clock struck ten, though in reality hours had passed. And, leaving his customers unattended, ever too trusting a man to suspect any threat, Mr Wesley stood almost in unison with his younger friend, and the two made for the yard, not far from the back door.

Mr Wesley gently touched Mallory's shoulder, leaving each man with glistening eyes and a thick tongue, though neither would admit it. And the two men conversed in low tones full of pain, though the villagers were too far to make out individual words, had they wanted to infringe on their privacy so. But they kept their distance; knowing, somehow, that this was private.

Then, to their surprise, they watched as Mallory kissed Mr Wesley on his slightly rough cheek – "One of those French things, I believe," one of the villagers suggested, as the rest nodded in acceptance, few having met any French before. Then he turned to walk between the trees that bordered the yard, until he seemed to disappear within the undergrowth. He never looked back, and Mr Wesley almost seemed to touch his cheek for a moment before staring almost mournfully after the retreating figure.

Mr Wesley stood there for a long time.


	17. Epilogue: Meet Mr Wesley

**Epilogue: Meet Mr Wesley (again)**

Mr. Blake Wesley, of number sixty-six, Castle Rd, was proud to say that he was perfectly normal, thank you very much. He owned and ran a small Bed and Breakfast in the distant coastal town of St Just, which doubled as a thriving café during the day, which people travelled for miles to visit. At night, he tended his roses and walked his black dog, Romulus, over the wide Cornish hills and rocky beaches like any other English gentleman, though he was still believed to paint during his spare time.

Mr Wesley had no real friends among the villagers, nor any true family to speak of, though his aloof manner was slowly beginning to warm slightly to the younger adults, and he never failed to treat the elders with a sort of fond respect. In general, however, he was a polite, softly-spoken gentleman with the esteem of most, who tended to keep to himself, not at all unusual for a man in what were yet assumed to be his forties. And he seemed content that way.

But, every now and then, for weekend or holiday, or even an isolated night – though none knew how or why any could travel so far for such a short time - they would hear noise in the normally quiet hallways of the old stone building, emanating from areas unfrequented by his ever-present tenants. And his rooms would be taken over by a strange young man who, though now dressed in clothing far more dignified – and expensive – than when they first met him, had never truly seemed to fit into the small village, and seemed to prefer it that way.

None of the visitors ever knew what had forged this unlikely bond between two people who seemed so vastly different, who seemed to have nothing in common. They were of such different ages, backgrounds, beliefs and interests. There was nothing that could have sparked a decent conversation between the two, without which any friendship would soon perish.

But yet, the young man kept coming, and Mr Wesley welcomed him with open eyes and a bright smile that, even now, surprised the villagers, who had grown so accustomed to his emotionless expressions, and the men would converse and walk as if they had never been parted. Of course, they argued constantly, at least once every visit, though they tried to keep their private discussions just that, and both seemed to grow frustrated with the other at times. Yet, from the looks in their eyes, and the care in their voice, no one could doubt that this was a friendship that would last forever, despite all logic to the contrary.

And every time Mallory Blanc returned, he found it harder to leave.

_A/N: Well, there you have it. The end. I'd like to thank everyone who reviewed this story, I really appreciate it. I've had a lot of fun playing with Blake and Mallory these past few months, and hopefully I'll write a sequel sometime in January/February. We'll see. Maybe this time there'll be some PLOT! ;)_

_I hope you all have a fantastic Christmas and new year! _

_Phoenixia (AKA Morauko, as she cannot be bothered to change pen name)_


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